Masquerade
by Ripki
Summary: Tasked with preventing a dangerous conspiracy, the Musketeers go to Venice. They have to play a dangerous game amid the many spies, enemies and traitors. And when the Venetian Carnival finally ends, all masks must be taken off – even if it may prove fatal. Friendship, angst and action with Athos/Milady and Aramis/The Queen. (Spoilers for season 1)
1. Prologue

**Full summary:**

Tasked with preventing a dangerous conspiracy towards the King, the Musketeers are sent to Venice. The infamous city is in the hectic swirl of the Carnival, and nothing is as it seems – including the Musketeers themselves. They have to play a dangerous game amid the many conspirators, spies and enemies. Soon friendships are tested, secrets revealed, treachery confronted and many a self-control stretched to its limit. And when the Carnival finally ends, all masks must be taken off – even if it may prove fatal.

**Additional tags:**

Athos, Aramis, Porthos, d'Artagnan, Milady de Winter, Queen Anne, Cardinal, OC's, Athos/Milady de Winter, Aramis/Queen Anne, background d'Artagnan/Constance, mild d'Artagnan/OFC, Porthos/OFCs, friendship, angst, emotional baggage, adventure, action, violence, torture, hurt/comfort, sexual content, spies, political intrigue, attempts at historical accuracy but everything I know I got from Google so probably not that accurate, broody Athos, broody Aramis, tourist d'Artagnan, Porthos just wants to have some fun, multiple POW, mentions of death of a child, heavy drinking, after season one, spoilers for season one, Venice

**Author's note: **

I hope to update this story once a week. It's going to be plotty and probably pretty long. Hope you enjoy it!

-o-

**Prologue**

-o-

_Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,_

_Nay, I have done; you get no more of me._

_And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,_

_That thus so cleanly I myself can free._

_- _Michael Drayton (1563-1631_), __Since There's No Help/Sonnet 61 -_

-o-

_September, 1630. Paris. _

Athos felt a lifetime lighter, when the locket fell from his hand.

He could hardly believe that the long nightmare might be over, that there could be – not a new beginning, he was too self-aware to believe himself capable of that. If not a beginning, then maybe some kind of peace. He would settle for dreamless, painless sleep. Free from her in dreams and in life. He had let her go, and maybe his tormented conscience, his shattered heart might now finally learn to let go of her too and let him live in peace.

It was over. And if he felt a twinge of loss and longing for the woman that was now gone from his sight, he could admit it to himself and indulge in it for this small moment. For she was gone, but still alive, and he had loved her once.

_You know there can be no peace _– no, it was over. He had to believe that – any other thought was just too damn depressing, even for him.

He walked briskly towards the Musketeers' garrison, confident that his friends would follow. D'Artagnan and Constance had already parted from their company, the former to ostensibly escort the latter back home. Before they had gone, they had had to endure teasing from both Porthos and Aramis, who good-naturedly had waxed lyrical about young love and its consummation until both recipients had been red in the face. Athos had had nothing to add to their repertoire – any word on love from him would have been at best laughable and at worst grotesque.

"Why are we on such a hurry?" Aramis inquired, easily keeping pace with his long legs. Both Aramis and Porthos were flanking him, like bodyguards too nervous to let their charge to get even a few feet away from them.

"I want to update Captain Treville as soon as possible." Athos knew Treville would be waiting anxiously for news on what had happened with the ambush Milady had set for them. He wondered how Treville would react to the information that he had let the Cardinal's agent go – the woman who was complicit in the attempted assassination of the Queen. Athos had thought that he was ready to kill her, to administer justice for crimes both recent and past. He had been ready five years ago too. But unlike last time, today he had the courage to stay his hand, to let her go. He could not regret that.

"I'm sure Treville wouldn't mind us arriving at a little slower pace – and having a few drinks before we get there," Aramis said, suddenly stopping dead in the middle of the street, Porthos following suit. Perplexed, Athos swiveled to face his friends. They were standing in front of one of their favorite haunts, _The Galleon_, looking meaningfully at the tavern.

Athos didn't have to say anything; his dark, unamused look said it for him. Now was not the time for drinks. Captain Treville waited for their report. Furthermore, Athos just wanted to get it all over with. After that he could test his newfound peace by drinking as many bottles of wine as he wished – which was usually quite a lot.

"I think that is a _wonderful_ idea," Porthos overacted. At Athos' raised eyebrow, he added, "What? I'm thirsty."

"I always have the best ideas." Aramis grinned broadly.

"You can go if you wish, but I have an appointment." Athos turned to leave, but Porthos' hand on his arm halted him. Frustrated, he turned to face his companions once more. He was in no mood for games.

"It'll keep." The jest had gone from Aramis' voice. "Have a drink with us, and let all of Paris stay ignorant of what has happened for a little while longer."

Suddenly Athos understood. However confidential their report to Treville would be, it would not stay secret for long – at least not from one person. The Cardinal had an uncanny ability to get to know everything concerning himself, particularly if that something had happened in the streets of Paris, in broad daylight. Just like Captain Treville, the Cardinal would hardly be pleased to find out they had let Milady go. By stalling, they would give her time to get out of Paris, before either of the men decided that she would have to face a firing squad or an assassin's blade. Athos doubted that his friends were aiding Milady out of concern for her – no, they were doing it for him.

They had just watched him spare his former wife from death. They didn't want him to face the same again, be it as a spectator instead of executioner. Moreover, they wanted to give him time to think, to breathe before he had to give his report. So he could better prepare what he would say, or to come to terms with what had happened, or to just be with his friends before being judged in front of their superior officer. Any or all – it didn't matter to them. They just wanted to give him the chance.

He was suddenly grateful for his friends anew, for all they had borne by having stood by him. Through all his dark moods, the heavy drinking, the unsociable days he hadn't been fit company for a dog let alone a human being. He didn't know what he had done to earn such loyal companions.

"_One_ drink," he agreed. Surely he had earned a celebratory drink. After all, it was all over.

-o-

She walked away head held high, refusing to run, refusing to look back. But her heart was still pounding fiercely, _alive_, and her fingers shook so hard she had to grip her skirts tightly. Twice now she had stared at the face of death (_his_ face) and survived. It was not any easier the second time. Disgusted, she felt the beginnings of nausea, a sign of weakness she had thought that she had purged herself of long ago.

Heedless of the traffic in the streets, the curious stares of onlookers, she quickened her steps. She needed to get home, needed to pack and plan – now more than ever, she had to keep her head, had to be able to think – a violent shudder went through her and the urge to vomit was so strong she was already half-turning towards the gutter, before she forced the feeling away with a furious self-discipline. She couldn't make a scene, couldn't draw more attention to herself. She could not be undone.

What on earth was the matter with her? She had had to think on her feet on numerous occasions, she had dodged musket balls and enemies and the noose – this was no different.

Finally, her lodgings appeared behind the street corner, and she forced herself to slow her pace and to look for tails or pursuers. She could not detect anyone suspicious, and so she hastened to her door, the lock opening with the third shaky try. The sanctuary of her real home was a welcome sight, the chilly rooms a relief against her fevered skin. She was safe there. No one had seen these rooms, not any lover or informant. Certainly not any musketeer. But still – she held no illusions that she could not be found, that the Cardinal didn't already know where she lived.

"Milady." Louise was standing at the door of the small parlor, her voice inquiring. She was a smart girl and accustomed to the strange peculiarities of her mistress' life. No doubt she had already guessed that once again a hasty departure from their current lodgings was imminent.

"Pack my clothes and essentials – whatever you can fit into the trunk and the two bags."

Louise knew not to ask any questions. Without a comment the maid disappeared to fulfill her orders, leaving her mistress to stand in the middle of the parlor.

She had to get out of Paris quickly. Not because _he_ might change his mind (he had too much honor for that), but because when the Cardinal learned that she had not met her end, he would start to worry that she knew too much about his secrets and schemes. For her dark deeds had mainly been his too. He would seek to silence her.

But instead of hastening to pack her jewelry and weaponry, instead of getting the money and documents out of their secret hiding place, she sank to the settee, as if her legs couldn't keep her upright anymore.

_Enough. It's over. Kneel. _

She was suddenly so tired. All these years, she had hated, with her body and what was left of her soul, and she was exhausted.

Where could she go now? What would she do? How would she live?

_Athos_ – she still couldn't believe he had let her go, trembled at the mere memory of it. He had been trying to save his own soul, no doubt, but finally, finally, he had acknowledged that he had made her what she was, the part he had played in it all. And he had not been able to kill her. And she had been ready – suddenly so weary, so tired, her hurt a massive stone dragging her to the bottom of dark waters, and for a moment she had been ready, had been almost glad that it should end like that, at his hand, so he would carry her with him forever and always remember it was _he_ who killed her – his wife.

But he hadn't. He hadn't done it. And she was – not soothed, not grateful, not glad, but after everything, still a little bit in love with him, like she had always been. The hate was duller now; the hurt weighted a little less. But what was she without those? What could she be without the hate that had sustained her for so long?

_It's over. It's over._

She would survive – she always did. Maybe she could begin again, somewhere no one knew her. Maybe she could make a new life for herself, do whatever she wished. Suddenly she realized that for the first time in – ever, really – there was no man she was dependent on. Not her drunk father, not Sarazin, not Athos, not the Cardinal. And that had to be the future. She would not seek another patron, employer or husband to betray her. She would only answer to herself from now on.

Energized, she sprang to her feet. There was no more time to waste.

She would live. And like always, she would carve herself a place somewhere, with her wits or body or the sharp blade of her dagger if she had to. There would be no peace, but too much serenity might just break her. Athos – always he would hound her, the memory of their love and his betrayal like sharp shadows close at her heels. And she would always remember how he had spared her and had let her go, the way he had looked at her. _It's over. Enough. _

But the tie between them could not be broken by one act of mercy. It was a strangely comforting thought: he too, would never be free. He would not forget her. They would be tied together, until death would free them at last. Until then, it would never be over.


	2. Chapter I: Secrets

**Chapter I: Secrets**

-o-

_Rien ne pèse tant qu'un secret. __(Nothing weighs on us so heavily as a secret.)_

- Jean de La Fontaine (1621–1695) -_  
_

-o-

_The First of February, 1631. Turin, the capital of the Duchy of Savoy. _

It was well past midnight, when the personal valet of the Duke of Savoy woke his master. Victor Amadeus I, the _Lion of Susa_, rose immediately, knowing his valet didn't dare to wake him for anything but the most important business. Christine of France shifted restlessly, but didn't wake, when her husband left their bed. The valet draped a velvet dressing gown over the Duke's nightshirt with expert hands, then holding a candle, led the way through shadowy corridors to the Duke's personal study. A dozen candles were already burning on each of the side tables, freeing the room from darkness. The light revealed a man, who rose from the chair where he had been waiting, as the Duke strode to the study. Clad in simple traveling attire, the man was broad and obviously in good shape, but otherwise wholly unremarkable. Although the Duke had seen him once, years before, he did not show any signs of recognition.

"Your Grace." The man gave a small bow and presented the Duke with a letter. The Duke took a quick glance at the familiar seal, and turned to his valet, who was still dutifully standing by his side.

"You may leave us." Politely but wordlessly, the valet followed the order, shutting the door behind him firmly, leaving the two men to gauge each other. The Duke opened the letter; it didn't take him long to peruse its contents as it only contained a few lines and the signature of the writer. The letter assured that its bearer, Captain Claude Durand, was trustworthy and would tell the Duke all that could not be put down in writing.

"Captain Durand, I trust this is important, for you to venture in to my home and to wake me in the middle of the night." The Duke sat down behind his massive oak desk, but didn't ask his visitor to sit on any of the other chairs in the room.

"Of course," Durand said. His expression was carefully blank, but his voice betrayed a hint of irritation. "His Highness stressed the importance of speed – he awaits your answer."

"Well, then you better tell me his message, while you pour yourself a drink." The Duke pointed to the side table that held a collection of carafes and glasses. The captain didn't hesitate. He poured two glasses of strong brandy, keeping hold of one and bringing the other to the Duke's desk. The Duke sipped his drink approvingly. "You chose my best brandy – you may sit."

The Captain sat opposite the desk and took a big gulp of his drink before he asked, almost casually, "Have the news from Paris already reached Savoy?"

"What news?" The Duke's voice was sharp. He detested knowing less than the other people in the same room.

"They have tried to keep it a secret, but no doubt it is common knowledge soon enough." Durand took another long swig of his drink, savoring the taste – and the suspense he had created. But the Duke would not suffer to wait long, so the Captain continued, "The Queen has given birth prematurely – but the male child was a stillborn."

"Then –" The Duke sprang to his feet and paced restlessly to the window. "The Duke of Orléans is still the heir." The world behind the windowpane was dark, but full of new possibilities.

"Indeed. He and the Duke of Vendôme have decided that now is the ideal moment to act. Even if the Queen were to get pregnant tomorrow – which is highly unlikely – we have nine months to act at least. Moreover, our sources say some of the new members of the Council of Ten are more favorable to our aims than their predecessors. It is the perfect time to make an alliance with them."

The Duke was nodding in agreement. "Then he is going to Venice?"

"With all haste," Captain Durand confirmed. "Ostensibly to affirm France's relationship with the new Doge they are electing, but in reality…"

"How sure is he to succeed?"

"Nothing is ever certain Your Grace," Durand didn't bother to hide his small smirk. "But His Highness can make a convincing case why Venice is better served with Gaston I than Louis XIII on the throne of France."

"Then what does he want from Savoy?" The Duke still held the glass in his hands. Frowning, he downed the drink in one gulp.

The Captain finished his own drink and put the empty glass pointedly on the Duke's desk. "He needs you to reaffirm Savoy's support to his cause." He took a letter from inside his leather jerkin. This letter was not sealed. Warily, the Duke took it. As he had expected, it was a treaty confirming Savoy's part in removing Cardinal Richelieu and King Louis XIII from power and it required his signature. For a smallest of moments, the Duke of Savoy hesitated. If the conspiracy was thwarted and Savoy's part in it ever uncovered…It was a big risk. But without risks, there were no rewards. Moreover, he had already given his word – and he was certainly not a man who broke his word.

The Duke took his quill and signed his name with stark lines. Then he folded the paper and sealed it with sealing wax and his personal signet. It was done – now Savoy's future rested with other men.

Durand did not tarry after getting the letter back. He rose swiftly, gave a shallow bow and turned towards the door. His hand was already on the door handle, when the Duke's sharp voice stopped him. "Captain, I trust you guard that letter with your life."

"Of course." The Captain inclined his head with assent. The Duke didn't get any more reassurances; Captain Durand opened the door and strode away determinedly. He had a long way to ride that night.

In the corridor, beside the study door, the long red drapes lining the wall swung lightly. Behind them, the Duchess of Savoy held her breath, not daring to move. She had just managed to hide herself as the door had opened and her younger brother's envoy had left. Luckily the man hadn't stopped to wonder why the study door had been slightly ajar. Christine knew she had to get to bed before her husband returned to their bedroom, expecting to find her asleep. She slipped out of her hiding place with silent feet and crept towards her rooms, already thinking how fast she could get a message to the King of France. 

-o-

_The First of February, 1631. Paris. _

_The Galleon _was a huge melting pot of noise, smoke and sharp smells, both human and animal. The Red Guards and the Musketeers had had their payday the day before and were now diligently spending their earnings on drinks, gambling and wenches. Porthos had indulged himself with all three and was having a very good time. Maria, one of the women who worked regularly at the tavern, looked pretty enough in the dim light and felt firm and sweet sitting on his lap. He had invested in a wine that was slightly better than the usual slop he could afford, and he had managed to win more than he had lost, annoying some Red Guards in the process. They had been eyeing him from across the room for the last half-hour, clearly thinking about retribution. A fight seemed imminent. All in all, Porthos was having a very good night. It would have been an exceptionally good night, if his companions would have had the good sense to join his merriment.

As it were, the other three of their company were clearly not in the mood for revelry. Athos was sitting in his usual seat in the darkest corner, embarked on a night of solitary drinking with a grim focus. Nothing unusual, but Porthos had hoped that with the departure of _that_ _woman_ – they never mentioned her name – Athos would have loosened up a bit. But it seemed the man liked to do his drinking alone or at least from a distance to others, and his curt unsociableness hadn't changed in the almost half-year after his murderous former wife had left Paris. Maybe Athos had always been like that and had drank expensive liquor alone in his chateau, until he had been so intoxicated his personal valet had had to carry his sorry self to the soft feathery bed he had undoubtedly slept in. Anyway, his behavior was not unusual and it didn't bother Porthos much. That was just how things had always been: Porthos, Aramis and lately d'Artagnan having a good time while Athos brooded in a corner, silently drinking but still secretly watching over them, ready for trouble. It was the other two that were acting out of character.

D'Artagnan had gambled a little and had drank his usual amount of wine – which never was that much to begin with, at least when compared to the other three – but Porthos could see his heart was not in it. It was not hard to guess that the separation from Constance was weighing on him harder that night. After she had returned to her husband, d'Artagnan had been depressed the first two months, then he had seemed to regain most of his good spirits, but now he was moody again. It probably did not help that almost every man in the tavern had a woman – or two – in their lap or hanging around their neck. _The Galleon_ was full of people, but it was the kind of crowd amid a man could easily feel alone. Like Aramis, who looked deeply lonely, although he was sitting just a few feet away from Porthos, surrounded by rowdy people on all sides.

Porthos shifted on his seat, nearly dislodging Maria from her perch. The woman exclaimed her dismay, but he hardly noticed. His attention was on Aramis, who was staring morosely at his drink. It was rare that Aramis was taken by a dark mood, rarer still that it lasted two whole weeks. It had to be something serious that was affecting his affable nature, making him listless and restless in turn and unusually short of temper. Aramis bore his ill-mood and hurt in silence, but couldn't help be solitary for long; for days, Porthos had awaited some sign from him that it was safe enough to approach him, to listen what ailed his friend or to help him forget. But no sign had come, no opening he could exploit to carefully enquire what was the matter and how he could make things better. It was worrying Porthos against his will, and now he was most assuredly not having a good time, having to watch Aramis have as much fun as a condemned man en route to his execution.

"All gone – again!" Maria giggled, upending the bottle, which yielded only few drops of red wine. The table was littered with empty bottles, some – well most – of which had been their doing. They hadn't bothered with cups. "More?"

"Yeah, you can get more," Porthos muttered distractedly, putting a few coins into her hand. Maria didn't seem to notice (or care about) his preoccupation as she smiled widely at the money. She smacked a kiss against the corner of his mouth, having obviously missed his lips. Then she rose up and sashayed with surprisingly steady feet towards the barman. Porthos didn't watch her go; his eyes stayed glued to Aramis.

Maybe he should just say something to Aramis, something that would get the man talking or at least would piss him off enough that he would acknowledge that the people around him – that Porthos – existed. It wouldn't matter if Porthos got better acquainted with Aramis' fists; it was the sullen silence that he couldn't take anymore. Besides, a good fight might just be the medicine Aramis needed. Violence was a well-established outlet, when one couldn't or wouldn't talk to others. It always did wonders to Porthos.

"So, how long do you think they are going to act like idiots?" Porthos asked, trying to soften his intensive gaze. It wouldn't do to expose his motives too early. But Aramis didn't react, and he had to repeat his question twice, each time a little louder.

When Aramis finally reacted and asked "Who?", he didn't sound the least bit interested. But he had lifted his eyes from the bottle and was now looking at Porthos, his gaze dull but coherent. He hadn't drank too much then.

Porthos gestured towards d'Artagnan, who had by now retreated to his own solitary corner. "I'll wager that Constance realizes what a ratty fraud that husband of hers is and finally leaves him after giving him a sound punch – let's say in a fortnight. If things are left to d'Artagnan, he'll brood in that corner forever." Porthos grinned, trying for levity.

"Sometimes there is nothing to be done." Eyes dark and face grim, Aramis took another swig from his bottle. "Some people can't be together. She is married to another."

"It's Bonacieux!" Porthos exclaimed, indignant. "He doesn't deserve her – well, d'Artagnan hardly deserves her either, but at least she loves him."

Aramis laughed, but his laugh was anything but a sign of mirth. It sounded hollow and tired, full of pain. "People don't get what they _deserve_ – not in this world. The rich and the powerful and the immoral, they take what they want. The poor are left to fight amongst themselves in the gutter. And the good and the dutiful – they have the unluckiest part of all, for they can never break free, but serve and serve until they are hollowed out and nothing is left –" He fell suddenly silent, as if remembering where he was and who he was talking to.

Porthos wasn't thick enough to think that they were still talking about d'Artagnan's love-life. He knew he was finally close to the heart of the matter; Aramis had involuntarily revealed some of what ailed him. But those were only pieces of the symptoms – what was the cause?

"Surely everyone – well, excluding the cardinals of the world – deserves some happiness? And they have the right to seek that happiness?" He ventured to say. It was like shooting in a pitch dark room; you could only guess the right direction from the small signs your hearing or sense of smell told you as you couldn't rely on your eyesight.

But Aramis didn't answer, only shook his head. He drank long from his bottle and then slammed it to the table with a thud. Porthos was well over his head. He couldn't think of anything else to say; he could hardly ask directly what ailed his friend. That conversation would need privacy – and a lot more wine.

Suddenly Aramis locked his gaze with Porthos and said, "_He_ sought happiness once and we know how that ended." Aramis nodded towards Athos, who had some kind of sixth sense of when people were talking about him. Now he turned his head and looked straight at Porthos and Aramis. "Let that be a lesson for us all – love is better left alone," Aramis snorted, but at the next moment he was staring at his empty bottle moodily, his surroundings forgotten.

Porthos sighed. His evening was ruined, there was no doubt about it. There were three brooding morons in the tavern – the biggest one at his table – who would need a chaperone until the night was over. At least one of them was bound to get into trouble; he was willing to bet on all three.

"There you are!" Suddenly Maria dropped down into his lap, cradling a bottle in her arms. "I looked everywhere for you! It's not nice to hide." She sounded sullen, but deigned to kiss his cheek.

"I've been here the whole time," Porthos chuckled.

"You were not!" She claimed, pursing her lips. "I looked!"

"Whatever you say, chéri."

"_You_ are not very nice." But she was already nuzzling his beard, her small hand petting his chest. He took a firmer grip of her waist, drawing her petite frame more firmly against him, making her purr in contentment.

"I'm a very nice man," Porthos said, giving her a long kiss. She tasted of wine and smoke.

The table rattled and it took a moment for Porthos to realize that Aramis had gotten up from his seat. He looked determined and desperate at the same time as he moved towards the door. Porthos swore, resigned to leave his comfortable surroundings to follow his friend. But before Porthos had even managed to move, Aramis was swiftly intercepted. Athos appeared before him and halted him by taking a strong hold of his arm. Curious, Porthos watched his friends. Luckily his seat was near them, so although the noise in the tavern was deafening at times, he could just hear what they were saying.

"Aramis." Athos' voice sounded like an order.

"I should be with her," Aramis said beseechingly. "I can't imagine what she is going through. I should go to her –"

"You can't," Athos said sharply. They looked at each other, Aramis defiant and Athos resolute. Then Athos' demeanor softened. "You know you can't. I am sorry." With those words Aramis deflated; he seemed to lose all his determination and will.

"I'm going to my rooms. I have lost my taste for drink and company." Aramis stepped around his friend, and Athos let him go without protest.

Porthos lifted Maria quickly from his lap – "Oy!" she gasped – and went to Athos.

"Shouldn't we follow him?" Porthos asked, patting himself down. He had his weapons, his money, his hat – in short, everything he needed.

"I'll follow. You can take care of the boy." Athos looked meaningfully at the corner, where d'Artagnan was heroically fending against a tavern wench looking to make a closer acquaintance. Without another word Athos exited the tavern, leaving Porthos to stand in place, disgruntled. Should he just take d'Artagnan and deposit him to his rooms and go to bed himself? But then again, the night was still young. He might as well enjoy Maria a little more and get that fight he had been hankering after. D'Artagnan would appreciate a little violence, he was sure.

Porthos returned to his table, but Maria had already found another lap to sit. Nonplussed, Porthos drew Maria from the amorous attentions of the pimple faced Red Guard, ignoring his indignant shout, and repositioned her into his lap.

"There you are," he grinned. Delighted, Maria giggled. The pimple faced soldier looked like he was about to do something very foolish, his hands hovering above his sword. Satisfied, Porthos kissed Maria soundly, keeping an eye on the Red Guard. It looked like he was going to get his fight sooner rather than later. Moreover, he was now much closer to solving the mystery of Aramis' dark mood. As he had already guessed, and the discussion between Athos and Aramis had all but confirmed, it was all about a woman. More likely a married woman. The rest, he would undoubtedly uncover in time. What was more important, Athos seemed to know what ailed their friend, and Porthos could trust that he would take care of Aramis until Porthos was in on the secret.

The Red Guard drew his sword and Porthos laughed. It was shaping up to be an exceptionally good night.


	3. Chapter II: The Mission

**Chapter II: The Mission**

_I would rather have a plain russet-coated captain that knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than that which you call 'a gentleman' and is nothing else._

_- _Oliver Cromwell (1599–1658)_ -  
_

-o- 

_The Tenth of February, 1631. Paris._

The four Musketeers were standing at attention, each of them knowing it would be bad form to fidget or slump. It was not because they were facing their superior officer – although Captain Treville deserved their respect and attention – but because present at the secret meeting was also Armand Jean du Plessis, better known by his title Cardinal Richelieu. Unlike their Captain, His Grand Eminence most certainly didn't deserve their respect, although he had their attention alarmingly often. Nevertheless, the Cardinal demanded at least cursory politeness, if for nothing else then because he always seemed to expect the worst from them and the Musketeers liked to prove him wrong at every opportunity.

D'Artagnan knew that the Cardinal's unfavorable view of them didn't result from their less than noble backgrounds – Porthos had been a thief, Aramis was a failed priest, Athos had abandoned his title and lands and he himself had grown up to be a farmer – but because they had the unfortunate habit of foiling the Cardinal's many plans. Therefore Cardinal Richelieu always looked like he had smelled something unpleasant, at the very least something badly rotten, whenever he had to be in the same room with them. Although to be fair, the antagonism went both ways.

Now the First Minister of France looked especially irritated. D'Artagnan didn't bother to hide his smirk. Just a half-hour ago Treville had summoned them to the _Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois_, telling them to be swift and inconspicuous. Inside the gloomy church they had found not only their Captain, but the Cardinal as well. The secrecy and King Louis' opposing advisers promised an interesting, if probably dangerous, mission.

Despite the circumstances, d'Artagnan couldn't help but glance around the imposing space. Paris had many grand churches, and they never failed to stir a sense of awe and wonder in him. _Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois _was not an exception. The daylight filtered through colorful stained-glass windows above the altar, but the light hardly reached the aisle they were standing. The only other light came from a few lit candelabrums which burned beside the side-chapel nearest to them. The pillars and arcades rose towards a high vaulted ceiling, creating dark shapes across the huge space. The statues and adornments were half hidden in shadows, as if they were not meant for human eyes. There seemed to be just one word that could express the church man had built, only a mere thinking of it was considered heresy. The word was magical.

His thoughts were abruptly broken as Treville started the meeting. "It goes without saying, that everything you hear here is strictly confidential." D'Artagnan focused wholly on the two men before him. They both looked somber and somehow unexpectedly old.

Without wasting any time on platitudes, the Cardinal went straight to the point. "We have had some alarming information from our spy in Savoy. The King's brothers are seeking to overthrow him and to take power for themselves." D'Artagnan couldn't help but be alarmed. That didn't sound good. No wonder that both Treville and the Cardinal were looking solemn and worried.

"Again?" Athos' voice was matter-of-fact. He didn't sound very surprised.

"Yes," the Cardinal grimaced. "It seems they cannot learn from their past mistakes. Of course, we have been closely monitoring them and there has been the usual chatter of half-hatched plots, but now we have definite information."

"It seems that they want to make a secret pact with the Republic of Venice," Treville said. He looked calm and controlled as usual, but d'Artagnan had come to know him well enough to recognize the tension in his posture. "They already have some supporters, the Duke of Savoy among them." The news about the Duke of Savoy didn't seem to surprise anyone. It was a known fact that he hated Cardinal Richelieu and considered King Louis, his brother-in-law, to be too weak to rule.

"Why Venice?" Porthos asked, giving voice to d'Artagnan's own thoughts.

"They need political support, money, weapons and manpower. Many of those they can get from Venice. The Republic isn't as powerful as it has been, but it is still an important ally: it has connections, wealth, goods and ships. Most important of all – weapons and goods can be brought from its harbor to Savoy and then through the border to France fairly easily and without detection." The Cardinal sounded like an annoyed teacher, educating his pupils on something they should have already known.

"But Venice has long been a good ally to the King of France." For the first time, Aramis spoke up. D'Artagnan resisted the urge to turn and look at him. Aramis had been in an unhappy mood for many days, unusually quiet and withdrawn. Now he almost sounded like his old self, but d'Artagnan knew it was just a mask he had erected to shield himself against the Cardinal's shrewd eyes.

"So they have, but apparently they will not oppose, if someone else than King Louis sits on the throne. No doubt _Gaston of France_ –" The Cardinal all but spit the name, "has promised them everything under the sun for their support. He is already travelling to Venice to seal the deal."

"We don't know yet how many in Venice supports the Duke of Orléans," Captain Treville pointed out, ever the voice of reason.

"He only needs a few key players," Cardinal Richelieu argued. "My sources in Venice tell that some new members of the Council of Ten are especially susceptible to his advances."

"Then what do you need us to do?" Athos asked. Even though they all loathed the Cardinal, they would do everything they could in the service of France and its King.

The Cardinal looked like he had swallowed something putrid. Despite the seriousness of the situation, an imperceptible smile appeared on Captain Treville's face as he said, "The King has given you an assignment: you are to go to Venice and stop the Duke of Orléans from making any kind of secret treaty with the Venetians. You are to uncover proof of his plot and then take him into custody and bring him back to Paris to face his King." Even though the task sounded difficult and dangerous, d'Artagnan could not help but be thrilled. He had never been abroad, and Venice sure beat the French countryside. The city was famous for both its beauty and its many vices. It was said to float on emerald waters of a lagoon. And it would be good to leave Paris for a while, to get some distance –

"Just the four of us?" Athos was asking and d'Artagnan struggled to renew his focus on the conversation. He couldn't think of _he_r now.

Treville nodded, "Yes, it's a covert mission. Although you have the King's authorization, no one is to know that you are Musketeers and acting on the King's behalf."

"So we are to be _spies_." Aramis sounded surprisingly sour. D'Artagnan could see him from the corner of his eye; he didn't seem at all happy with their mission.

"Believe me, _you_ certainly weren't my choice," the Cardinal retorted. "This is hardly the job for soldiers, but the Queen persisted – she thinks the Musketeers are _perfect_ for this delicate mission."

Aramis stiffened, but didn't say anything.

"The Queen knows that they are the most loyal and brave of the King's Musketeers. They are exactly the men for the job, especially when we don't know how far the conspiracy has spread," Treville was quick to defend his men. No one needed to remind the Cardinal why it was that the Queen of France didn't trust his judgment; after all, it had only been eight months since he had tried to get her killed. It was also why the Cardinal couldn't oppose the Queen too much. He had to still live in perpetual fear that the Queen would expose his treachery to the King and he would lose not only his position but his head.

"What kind of evidence is needed?" Porthos asked. They all knew that one didn't accuse the heir to the throne of France lightly.

"We know for certain that the Duke of Savoy signed some kind of treaty, and it is highly likely that the Duke of Orléans is demanding that the Venetians sign a similar treaty as well – get those documents, and we get the evidence we need," Captain Treville assured.

"But how certain is it that the Duke is carrying the treaty with him? He could have easily left it somewhere for safekeeping." Was it just d'Artagnan's imagination, or did Athos sound a little uneasy?

Cardinal Richelieu's expression twisted into a strange half-smile. "Gaston is nothing if not predictable. He doesn't trust anyone with it – after all, it's his insurance. And I bet the Venetians want tangible proof that Savoy is indeed in the plot, so he has to show the treaty to them. Oh, he definitely has it with him."

"So how are we going to do it?" D'Artagnan found himself wondering aloud.

"You are to disguise the fact that you are Musketeers, but otherwise you can use your real names," Treville answered and looked at Athos almost apologetically. "Especially your name, Athos."

In the next moment it became clear what he meant, when the Cardinal explained, "You can make use of your title and be a nobleman, down-on-his-luck, looking for restoring his house and name by investing in Venetian trade." The Cardinal looked critically at Athos' well-worn musketeer uniform and disheveled hair. "A very down-on-his-luck nobleman, almost bankrupt."

Porthos snorted and d'Artagnan struggled not to smile. It was funny, although he doubted Athos saw the humor. After all, the man had given up his life as a _Comte_ for a reason. Athos however had an admirable poker face; his stone-faced expression didn't change.

"What about the rest of us?" Porthos asked, sounding eager. He was probably imagining some grand role for himself.

"One of you is the valet; the other two can be the Comte's trusted men."

"Isn't it a risk to use our real names?" Aramis enquired, his tone icily polite.

"It's more risky to use false identities that can be easily ascertained to be fake. This way, if someone asks around about Comte de la Fère…" Captain Treville had clearly thought about the plan carefully, which eased d'Artagnan's mind a little.

"Besides, no one is going to recognize _your_ name," the Cardinal sniffed.

"And all of you have never met the Duke?" Treville wanted to make sure. The Musketeers all nodded their affirmation. The King's and more importantly the Cardinal's displeasure towards the Duke of Orléans had kept him away from Paris for many years. He would not be able to recognize them.

"And what of the Duke of Vendôme?" Athos asked.

Cardinal Richelieu's gaze sharpened. "He is still in exile. Our sources say he hasn't left Holland; he knows he is too closely watched. He will be dealt with." The Duke of Orléans was protected by his status as the legitimate heir of the King, and would probably only suffer banishment or house arrest for his role in the conspiracy. D'Artagnan wondered if the King's elder half-brother could count on the same lenient punishment or if his fate would be harsher. They all knew what the punishment for the conspiring brothers would be, if the Cardinal got to decide. Both the Duke of Orléans and the Duke of Vendôme had been vocal in their opposition to Cardinal Richelieu's power and influence over the King, had already tried to topple him from his position once before – the Cardinal would gladly see them dead.

After that, the meeting was quickly over. The main part of the mission had been outlined; the details were left to the Musketeers themselves. They exited the church in various moods: Athos was lost in thought, no doubt already making detailed plans and backup plans for the mission; Aramis was somber and heavy-hearted as was his usual way lately; only Porthos was almost giddy with excitement. D'Artagnan didn't know how to feel. The thrill he had felt had begun to slowly turn into dread. They were going to a foreign country in secret, to try to detain the heir to the French throne as discreetly as possible, but first they had to somehow uncover evidence of his betrayal. The plan hinged on numerous factors, all of which could quickly go wrong.

"Venice!" Porthos exclaimed, not willing to be dragged down by his companions' subdued demeanors. "Courtesans, exotic things from all over the world, the Carnival. It will be fun!"

Athos snorted, "You know we'll probably be exposed as spies and killed?"

"As I said, fun!" Porthos wasn't the least bit deterred. D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile at his friend. Porthos' enthusiasm and confidence was infectious. As ever, they would prevail over any obstacles, together.

He turned to the others and asked, "So, who´ll be the valet?" As if by silent agreement, all three men turned to look at d'Artagnan pointedly. He sighed. "Of course."

-o-

Captain Treville left soon after his Musketeers, but the Cardinal stayed in the church. He went in to a small side-chapel and lit a votive candle in front of the wooden statue of Saint Germain. The saint bishop sat imperiously on his perch, eyes almost half-lidded, holding an open book in his hand. The red robes of the saint seemed even redder in the candlelight. Instead of piousness, the statue was the very image of power.

"Your Eminence." The harsh voice carried from the darkness, disembodied. Despite himself, Cardinal Richelieu startled. But he knew that voice, and so could collect himself quickly. As he turned from the statue, a dark shape stepped into the side-chapel. The shape came nearer and transformed into a tall man in a black cloak.

"Have you made all the preparations?" The Cardinal asked, studying the face of the man before him. He marveled yet again how the seemingly normal looking man could seem so off-putting. The man bore no disfigurement, not even a single boil or scar. He was not ugly; the firmness of his mouth and the sharp line of his nose made him fairly good-looking. Perhaps it was the dead stare of his eyes that made the Cardinal uncomfortable and wary. Perhaps he was only projecting what he knew of the man in to his face.

"Yes, I am ready to leave immediately." The man's hoarse voice was dispassionate; his tone the very definition of uninterest.

"Good. You need to leave before the Musketeers are on their way." Once again, the Cardinal cursed the Queen's tendency to meddle in things that didn't concern her. If she had been just trying to punish the Cardinal, to show that she had power – that he could understand. But it seemed that in addition to that she sincerely believed that the Musketeers were the best agents France could send to Venice. And the King couldn't deny her anything, not so soon after another dead baby. Once again, the Cardinal was left to take matters into his own hands because France's best interest demanded it.

"I can avoid them," the man said confidently. The Cardinal believed him; the man had proved himself time and again to be an excellent agent and assassin. Then again, Milady had been his best, and it still stung him how that had turned out. Overconfidence was a fault as much as insecurity.

"See that you do," he snapped. "Your presence must stay secret – it's essential. Otherwise those treaties are no use to me." The documents would be great bargaining chips, especially the one that fool Victor Amadeus had signed. Savoy's impudence and disobedience would soon be at an end.

"That is all?"

The Cardinal turned to look at Saint Germain. The statue's gaze seemed to move with the flame of the candle. "Make sure that the Duke of Orléans can't threaten the King again." It was not necessary to clarify the order; the man knew what was required of him.

"Any parameters?"

"It would be fortunate, if it happened in Venice." Let the Venetian councilmen try to wriggle out of the mess of a foreign dignitary and the heir of the King of France dying on their soil. They would not be able to deny France anything. It would be a nice lesson to those who sought to oppose him.

"And if the Musketeers get in the way?"

"You can dispose of them. I don't particularly care how you do it." The Cardinal locked gazes with his top agent. "Just don't fail me, Gérard."

"I won't." The words were not a promise, but a flat statement. Failure wasn't an option.

-o-

He had to see her.

Although they were to depart from Paris as soon as possible, Aramis couldn't leave the city without seeing her, without telling her how sorry he was, how he would do anything to give her any measure of comfort, that he thought of nothing but her, day and night. With some pretext or another, he had been to the Royal Palace as often as it had been plausible and he had been able, but he had always had to leave disappointed. The Queen had been shut in her private chambers, recovering from the ordeal of stillbirth, not receiving any visitors. There had been no chance to meet, to say –

As Aramis hurried back towards the church of _Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois_ and _Palais du Louvre_ that stood next to it, he could only hope that his luck would change. That God would decide he had suffered enough. On account of his life experience, he wasn't being very optimistic about his chances.

But he had had a small sliver of luck earlier in getting away from the garrison unhindered. If Athos hadn't happened to be elsewhere, he would have undoubtedly realized Aramis' intention and would have tried to stop him, but Porthos and d'Artagnan didn't know anything about his connection to the Queen. Although they had raised their eyebrows, they hadn't protested when he had announced that he had an urgent appointment he couldn't miss. D'Artagnan himself had looked hesitant, clearly debating in his mind if he should see Constance before their departure. Aramis would most certainly have to face Athos' displeasure upon returning to the garrison, but he couldn't care less – to hell with him!

Against all odds, Aramis' luck seemed to hold when he encountered a familiar Musketeer at the palace. In no time at all he had learnt from the man that the Queen was taking a short stroll in the palace gardens, enjoying some fresh air. Without further ado, Aramis turned around and strode towards _Jardin des Tuileries_, leaving the confused Musketeer to wonder about his unusually abrupt manners.

The palace gardens were dashing even in the grip of late winter. Aramis hardly noticed the frosty bushes and trees that were glittering in the sunlight like diamonds. There was no pleasure to be had from their cold beauty. The gardens were quite large, but the small flock of richly cloaked forms were easily visible in the distance. The deep blues, greens and reds of their attire were like banners of war against the white of their surroundings.

No one stopped him when he approached the Queen, his determination and the _fleur-de-lis _on his uniform clearing his path. He knew he was breaking at least a dozen protocols, not to mention all the laws of common courtesy, but he didn't have time or patience for lengthy court games. And this way, she could not refuse to see him. Aramis knew he was ambushing her, but he had no choice – he had to speak to her.

The Queen was wrapped in a blue cloak lined with soft grey fur. Only her wan face was exposed to the cold, the hood covering her fair hair. Aramis was struck by the soft graceful features of her face, realizing that he had begun to forget how beautiful she really was. No dream or memory could hold a candle to the reality.

"Your Majesty," he bowed deep, taking his hat off. His heart was suddenly hammering in his chest, his tongue leaden. He felt the curious stares of the few ladies-in-waiting and guards that were surrounding them, and wished fervently that they could be alone, like they had been on that night so many months ago. Maybe then she wouldn't seem to be so far away from him.

"Your Majesty," he repeated, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice. "Please forgive my rude interruption of your peaceful walk. I…I am leaving Paris shortly and wanted to offer my…condolences." He hated the formality, the coldness of the word _condolences_ that made him a mere spectator of her grief. As if it hadn't been personal for him – as if it hadn't been his child too. But with others listening, he couldn't say more than that, and even those words were stretching the limit of what a mere soldier could say to his Queen.

"Thank you, Monsieur Aramis, for your kind words." Her words didn't waver, but her eyes were full of sadness. She looked small, covered with the thick cloak from head to toe. He tried to desperately hold her gaze; she had to know he was tremendously sorry, that he would do anything for her. He willed her to send the others away so they could quit with the pretense and say what they really meant. But her eyes skirted to the side, away from him, and she fell silent.

He tried once more, saying, "I hope – I hope you all the happiness –"

"Monsieur," the Queen interrupted, and although her voice was soft, it held a core of steel. "I wish you good luck on your journey. I will always think of you with friendship."

Aramis knew he was dismissed. There was nothing else to do, so he bowed and then turned away, numb. The rest of the way back to the garrison went by in a blur; he hardly noticed his surroundings. He could think of nothing else but her sad eyes, skirting away from him.

All of it was eerily familiar: once again, his child was dead and the woman he loved was disappearing from his sight, the quilt and grief too overwhelming. He couldn't help but wonder if all of it wasn't his fault – and that she had sent him away from Paris, not because he was needed to stop the plot against the King, but because she couldn't stand to see him.


	4. Chapter III: En Route

**Chapter III: En Route**

_Friendship, of itself a holy tie, is made more sacred by adversity._

_- _John Dryden (1631-1700)_ -_

-o- 

_The Seventeenth of February, 1631. Near the town of Valence, in southeastern France. _

The night had already darkened, when they stopped in the small hollow lined by trees. It was not a perfect place for spending the night, but it would offer some cover from the bitter wind that pierced them to the bone. They were a long way from the north of France and its still gnawing winter; the southern France's days were much closer already to spring. The nights however could still freeze a man, especially when coupled with the merciless wind.

Porthos dismounted with extra care, his joints and muscles stiff. He didn't want to fall flat on his face on the hard ground, not when the others were already standing on their own legs. Not wanting to waste precious resting time, Porthos deposited his saddlebags and his bedroll on the ground and swiftly took care of his horse. The others were doing the same in silence. No words were needed, for their many travels had made this part of the journey a boring, if necessary routine.

They had ridden hard for a week, needing to reach their destination as soon as possible. For that end, they hadn't taken much with them; only their usual traveling gear and weapons. They had some provisions, but the rest they would have to purchase as the need arose from the small towns and villages they passed along the way. The only concession to extra baggage was a change of clothes; each of them carried a second attire that, while certainly not fit for a dinner with a king, was still sufficient enough for polite company. Those, and the purse full of livres and ducats, were the only things that separated them from the soldiers they were and the nobleman's entourage they were pretending to be. The purse was the more significant of the two; money opened a lot of doors and stilled suspicious minds. Only the letter Athos carried inside his boothose was more important, for it contained the King's signature and his authorization. The letter proclaimed that they had the authority to arrest every French citizen they deemed guilty of crimes against the King – including the King's brother.

The Musketeers were only half-way through their journey to Venice, but Porthos wished that they were already in the famed city. He could hardly wait to see the place he had heard so much of. It was said that although Venice was rebellious in any given day – regularly getting the Vatican into sputters of indignation and horror – it was particularly wild during the Carnival. As men and women from every class donned their masks, no one knew if they were talking to a servant or a noble, a thief or a merchant. However, his eagerness to arrive in Venice was not solely because he wanted to experience all it had to offer; it was also because the atmosphere in his current company was tense, full of friction.

Ever since they had left their garrison behind, something had been steadily brewing between Athos and Aramis. It was not hard to guess that it was linked to the mysterious appointment Aramis had vanished into just mere moments before they were to depart. Athos had been livid, when he had come from Treville's office and Aramis had been nowhere to be found. However, he hadn't confronted Aramis upon his return, had just told him rather coldly to saddle up as they all had been waiting for him and were ready to go. The two men hadn't exchanged any but cursory words since then. It was getting ridiculous, not to mention a little alarming. They worked best as a unit; any bickering or ill feeling could jeopardize the mission.

Porthos studied his companions as they made the camp. They worked efficiently, but it was easy to see that something was amiss. Aramis and Athos didn't speak to each other, addressing Porthos or d'Artagnan instead. They were giving each other as wide a berth as they could on the small camp site. D'Artagnan had noticed the same; he was making these small furtive glances towards the pair and then towards Porthos. Something would have to be done. Porthos gave the lad an imperceptible nod – he would take care of this.

In spite of his firm intention to address the situation headlong, Porthos found himself waiting for the right moment as they ate their small meal in front of the fire. Athos dived straight into mission talk, and even Porthos knew better than to interrupt him, when he was reviewing once again the critical elements of their mission.

"The Doge is mainly a ceremonial figure – the Council of Ten wields the true power. The Cardinal's source named two of the members who possibly favor the Duke's plan, Pietro Longhena and Leonardo Gonzaga. Gonzaga is the older and richer of the two, so he probably is more influential." Athos had already said all of it before they had even departed from Paris. It was always a clear sign he thought the mission particularly difficult and dangerous, when he started to repeat himself.

"So he is the one to watch," d'Artagnan surmised, willing to play along.

"We can't exclude the other members of the council. We don't know their views or motivations. Nor do we know if the Cardinal's source can be trusted." As he spoke, Aramis kept staring at the flames of their small campfire. Whatever secret he carried, it hadn't yet dimmed his wits or distracted his focus from the mission too badly.

"Well, _of course_ we can't." Porthos had adopted the healthy attitude of not trusting anything the Cardinal said or did in any circumstance. He had found it greatly increased their chances of success on any given mission. If not telling outright lies, Porthos was certain there were things His Eminence had omitted to tell them. The Cardinal had only with great reluctance revealed the name of his source of information in Venice, stressing that they could not under any circumstances approach the man. The Supreme Tribunal of Venice and its inquisitors were notorious for their many spies and informers abroad and inside Venice. Those who gave information to outside powers didn't go long without notice. Claudio Cavalli was also a member of the Council of Ten – if the Supreme Tribunal found out he had been supplying the First Minister of France with information, he would meet the end that so many of Venice's enemies had met: torture, followed by a very public and a very bloody death. It was more than likely that they themselves would suffer a similar fate, if they were ever caught spying on Venetian soil. Even the King's letter couldn't save them then.

As if reading Porthos' thoughts, Athos confessed, "It's the inquisitors I'm worried about. There's no telling what their stand on this is."

"Won't they follow the council's lead?" D'Artagnan wondered.

"They were established to deal with threats to the state's security, but they have equal authority with the Council of Ten. That means they can try and convict those accused of treason without any oversight from the council. In theory, they don't need to seek approval for their verdicts. From what I hear, they are very efficient and quite ready to act at the smallest sign of treason."

"So it all hinges on if they think the treaty the Duke is offering is an opportunity or a danger to Venice. Hell, if we are lucky, they will nip the Duke's plan in the bud and we just have to arrest him – or to make sure he doesn't lose his royal head," Porthos said, already doubting they would get that lucky.

"Whatever their stand, they will not suffer agents of foreign countries operating on their soil," Athos pointed out sharply, dashing all hopes of a happy co-operation with the Venetians.

"They seem like a merry bunch. There were three, weren't there?" To his credit, d'Artagnan didn't seem overly concerned. The boy was admirably courageous, although sometimes that was more recklessness than bravery. Porthos could relate to him; occasionally rash action was necessary.

"Yes. _Il Rosso _– or the Red One – is chosen from the Doge's councilors and two others – _I negri_ – are chosen from the Council of Ten."

"Then let's hope we'll never have to meet them." Porthos raised his canteen as a toast and drank deep. As always, he felt a small twinge of disappointment as the tepid water hit his throat. He would have to wait for the next tavern for a chance to taste wine, and at the rate they were going, it was probably not until they were in Venice.

"I think that is not very likely." Athos smiled grimly.

"Always the optimistic," Aramis needled. The poisonous tone of his words was in stark contrast to its usual playfulness. Athos ignored him. D'Artagnan shifted, uneasy. Porthos sighed. Something would have to be done – and soon.

After that, the conversation dried up quickly. They divided the watches, and despite the lad's objections, the first watch was designated to d'Artagnan. That way the young man could sleep interrupted the rest of the night. As d'Artagnan settled his blanket nearer to the fire and Aramis went to relieve himself into the bushes, Porthos saw his chance. He stepped close to Athos and took hold of the man's shoulder.

"Fix this!" Porthos hissed, nodding towards Aramis. "Yell or fight or whatever – I don't care. Just solve whatever is wrong, before we all die, because you two are too stubborn to talk to each other."

Athos gave him a look that clearly said, _how is this my fault? _His shoulders tense and lips pursed, he seemed to be on the verge of sharp words. He held them in however, and yielded. "I'll talk to him," Athos promised grudgingly.

Porthos felt a twinge of resentment. Aramis had refused to talk to him despite Porthos' many overtures, and so Porthos had trusted Athos – who clearly had been confided in – to take care of whatever was agonizing Aramis. Instead Athos had managed to get into a quarrel with Aramis, further escalating their friend's dark mood.

Without further words Porthos went to his bedroll, determined to get as much sleep as he could before it would be his turn to take the watch. He enfolded his blanket tightly around himself, but still the cold was relentless. The small fire seemed to give only cursory warmth; it did not reach his benumbed fingers and toes. Although still in the same old clothes he was accustomed to wearing, Porthos felt strangely naked without his _fleur-de-lis _spaulder. All that the symbol represented – honor, chivalry and duty – had become important to him, and albeit those things were not tied to a piece of ornamental leather, they still felt alarmingly absent without the symbol. He wondered if the others felt the lack, and if they did, did it bother them as much as it did him.

-o- 

The dream was already sliding away when he woke, heart aching and cock stiff. All that remained was the image of dark hair against a white pillow and the feel of warm skin, ridged with scars from a rope, on his tongue. He lay on his bedroll, frustrated and weary, waiting for the arousal to subside. Above him, the night sky was full of stars, and he observed the familiar constellations until his heart and body calmed down. A sidewise glance towards the fire revealed a familiar silhouette. Aramis was on watch.

For a moment, Athos felt an overwhelming urge to just stay put. But there was no helping it; he had promised Porthos, who was right to be worried. Quite without Athos' intent, his relations with Aramis had become strained and were well on their way to hostile. It was a distraction they couldn't afford, not amid perhaps the most challenging mission they had ever faced. Besides, there was no time like the present to get the altercation over with. At least with the other two of their company sleeping, they would be spared an audience.

His mind made up, Athos rose up quietly. Immediately, the cold tried to seep deeper into his bones, making him shudder. It seemed that the winter had lasted unnaturally long, although it was still just February. Almost gladly he stepped closer to the fire and Aramis, who sat beside the flickering flames. Aramis couldn't miss the fact that he wasn't the only one awake anymore, but he didn't acknowledge his friend in any way.

"I need to talk to you."

"Well, if you must," Aramis muttered.

"Not here." Athos left the fire reluctantly behind, walking slowly to the edge of the small hollow, stopping when he reached the trees. He was relieved to hear Aramis behind him; he hadn't been so certain that the other man would follow.

For a moment Athos didn't know how to begin, but then decided to just address the situation headlong. "Whatever happened in Paris – you, _we_, have to leave it behind and focus on the mission."

Aramis snorted, "Like you have left your past life behind?"

Irritated, Athos took a deep breath. Starting an empty quarrel would only make matters worse. He had to get through to Aramis, but lately it seemed that his friend didn't really hear anything he said – or if he heard, he understood the words to mean something they did not. Aramis had interpreted Athos' attempts to stop him meeting the Queen as wanting to keep them apart, when in reality he had just wanted to protect the couple. Their relationship was not a common relationship; the death of their child was not a common death. If their affair or the baby's parentage would ever be discovered – Athos couldn't bear to think what would happen to his friend.

"I know – I know how hard it is to not let something like that consume you, but we have a duty, a mission to protect the King – and the Queen. A duty to serve France the best we can." Although Aramis had every right to his grief, he could not let it affect their mission. That way laid certain trouble and possible failure.

"I know that!" His face covered with darkness, only Aramis' voice revealed his anger. "Don't worry; I will do my duty, as always."

"We need your whole attention on this. What is more, we need your sound judgment. Going to see the Queen – that was stupid and reckless." Athos didn't pull any punches; he needed to get his point across.

"You have no right to judge me, or to stop me from doing what I think is right."

"As your friend, I have every right to stop you from getting killed!" Athos hissed, his temper flaring.

"They can hang me all they want – I don't care!"

"What about her? Are you so far gone you don't care what happens to her if they find out?" Athos took hold of Aramis' shoulders, wanting to shake some sense into the man. He gripped them tightly instead, trying to convey his worry and fear with his touch.

"I care," Aramis spat, tearing Athos' hands away. "I _love_ her. I wish I didn't." The last words were a mere broken whisper. Athos' temper subsided as swiftly as it had risen. He knew what it was to love helplessly, unhappily, despite oneself.

"I had to see her – it was torment to think –" Aramis' anger had left him; he sounded tired and hollow. However stupid his visit to the Queen had been, Athos could understand it. He knew from experience how guilt and grief could transform a man and take all reason and sense with them.

"Did it help?"

Aramis' silence was telling.

"You have to let her go," Athos sighed, already knowing what an enormous, if not wholly impossible, task that would be.

"I don't think you are the best person to give me that advice," Aramis countered. _Touché_, Athos thought wryly.

Silence fell around them; it seemed all had been said. The night was still full with darkness, the blackness piercing and desolate. It was hard to imagine that there would be sufficient light in just a few short hours, when they would have to continue their journey. It felt almost like old times; the lightest sleepers of any company, the two of them had often kept watch together in the dark, conversing of anything under the sky or as often spending the time in companionable silence. Athos felt a sudden longing for those times, sharp and visceral.

When Aramis spoke next, some of the familiar amicability was back in his voice. "What about you? Can you be Comte de la Fère again?" The end of the sentence, _without drowning in your memories_, went unsaid but not unheard.

"I'll manage," Athos said curtly. He knew his answer was insufficient, in particular in the light of all he had wrangled out of Aramis, but he couldn't discuss his own demons. Maybe that made him a hypocrite, but he had reached his limit for a heart-to-heart for one night.

Aramis snorted, but didn't comment on the obvious brush-off. He started to go back to the campfire to continue his watch, but after just a couple of steps, he hesitated. "I will try my best; that is all I can promise."

"That is enough," Athos said, relieved.

Aramis nodded and turned to go.

"Aramis – it'll get easier. Someday." Athos knew it was a cold comfort, but he had to offer his friend something.

Although he didn't get any answer, Athos felt better than he had in days. This time, it seemed like Aramis had really heard him. And it went both ways; Athos had finally gotten to know some of his friend's thoughts. Not everything was resolved between them, nor would any of the lingering causes for friction be easily unraveled. But perhaps they were a few steps closer to understanding each other. Maybe the mission was not doomed after all.


	5. Chapter IV: Into the Lion's Den

**Chapter IV: Into the Lion's Den**

-o-

_And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in a masquerade._

- Alexander Pope (1688 - 1744) -

-o-

_The Twenty-Fifth of February, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice. _

It was a clear and bright morning and they could easily see the Republic's capital on the horizon even as they set sail. The city's numerous church towers were clearly visible against the light blue sky, like miniature models on the surface of a map. D'Artagnan's eyes were clued to the island as the mainland receded behind him. Nervous, he wondered what awaited them there and if they would be at all ready to face it.

They had left the horses in Mestre and had hired a shallop to take them to Venice. From the many boats to hire, theirs had a boatman that could speak passable French. The weather-beaten man quickly launched into his life-story – he had been born in Nice, had been all his life at sea, had almost lost his left leg etc. – until he fell silent, discouraged by their lack of response and the overall silence in the boat. D'Artagnan felt a little twinge of remorse because of it, but it wasn't his place to address the man. Their mission, and most importantly his role in it, had irrevocably changed as they had reached their destination.

It had only been the four of them on the road, so there had been no need to play any roles. Now surrounded by Venetians and foreigners alike, they would have to play their parts. In Mestre, he had tried to seem a little subservient and had followed the others a few paces behind them, carrying Athos' traveling bag with his own. Just this small act had proved to be a lot harder than he had imagined; it grated on him to suddenly seem less than his companions after he had finally proven himself to be equal to them. But he would have to keep with the pretense as long as necessary, for their whole mission might depend on it. He was now a servant in the eyes of the world, and nothing more.

On top of everything else, the mission hadn't exactly begun as he had envisioned. There had been some kind of silent quarrel between Aramis and Athos during most of their journey, and d'Artagnan had been at a loss as to when or why the whole thing had started. He only knew it was something serious; neither man would shift their focus from an important mission lightly. To his relief the atmosphere in their group had gotten better since Porthos' promised intervention, but it still wasn't the same easygoing rapport they usually had. Then again, maybe their current mission had something to do with it. All his three companions seemed tense as the shallop ploughed its way through the green-blue waters of the lagoon, getting ever closer to the city.

D'Artagnan himself felt the creeping excitement and suspense, mixed with dread, squeezing his insides. It was hard to stay silent and not to ask the thousand different questions he had on his mind. The others had read or heard of Venice, but d'Artagnan knew next to nothing of the city they were fast approaching. His curiosity was like an itch he felt compelled to scratch, but couldn't, and it was slowly driving him into distraction. Why hadn't he asked everything he wanted to know sooner, when they had been still on the road? It had somehow felt impossible to break the stifling atmosphere that had all but swallowed them, and besides – he had been slightly embarrassed to reveal to others how little he actually knew of the place they were going. And now it was far too late.

Luck however, was for once on his side. Porthos happened to break the silence by remarking, "The Island is getting closer." It was all that their boatman needed to start his prattle again.

"Ah, _signore_, Venezia – it is many islands, hundreds, not one. But they are small and very together." None of them responded, but d'Artagnan tried to give an encouraging look to the boatman. The man seemed to get the message, for he happily continued, "Many, many _rio_, I mean canals between them. And in the middle, the _Canal Grande_. Walking no good in Venezia, you have to hire a gondola. Even inside a _sestiere_, you better have a boat." Seeing d'Artagnan's confused look, the boatman elaborated, "Venezia has six _sestieri_, ugh, you call it an area, a different part of the city." A small considering silence, and then, "Maybe I can help _signori_ to hire a gondola – I know good people who don't take too much money. Where are you wanting to go?"

"At the present we don't know yet. We have to find some lodgings first," Athos said. His answer was curt and matter-of-fact, but d'Artagnan could detect the familiar amused wryness underneath it.

"I know the best place!" The boatman exclaimed. "_La Taverna del Leone_ – but every other tavern has a lion in the name –" The man shrugged as if to say, _what can you do?_ and continued, "so you must ask for Signora Modena's tavern. Everyone knows it. Many noblemen stay there; it's very good – and fair price. And very close to the docks in _Cannaregio_." Then as if again remembering that his passengers knew nothing of the place he was ferrying them, he explained, "It is the _sestiere_ we are going. Signora Modena's inn is the best place there – the best."

D'Artagnan wondered how much the man was being paid for recommending the tavern in question to new travelers. He hoped it was sufficiently, for the man did his job to the letter.

"We'll take that into consideration," Athos promised, and although it was not a _yes_, the boatman seemed to take it as such, for he grinned wildly, exposing a row of rotten teeth.

The city had come closer and closer as they had been talking, and now they were navigating towards the docks amongst the many other vessels. The lagoon was busy as a beehive; ships and boats of all kinds crisscrossed from the mainland to Venice and to other neighboring islands. Many were ferrying people, but many more were carrying goods and merchandise.

Despite the traffic, the docking went surprisingly swiftly and smoothly, and d'Artagnan found himself standing on the soil – or more accurately, the stone-paved surface – of Venice for the first time. He could only stand and stare at the place in wonder. The docks seemed like any other docks in an ordinary town, until one looked further and saw the small canals that led from it to inland like lanes. The canals were full of small boats, the majority of them curious looking rowing boats that were steered by only one standing man with an oar. That had to be the much talked about gondola.

"Remember Signora Modena's tavern!" The boatman yelled behind them as they parted from his company, having first paid him generously. "And you ask for Pietro at the Cannaregio docks if you want to go to Mestre or to Murano – I'll take you anywhere with good price!"

Not knowing any other place to stay, they decided to try the recommended tavern. True to the boatman's word, Signora Modena's inn was very close to the docks. A few short alleys and one set of directions later they were standing in front of a narrow, three-story building that faced a busy canal. The tiled house had the obvious air of a tavern; loud voices carried from inside out to the walkway and people were going and coming through the front door that had a scuffed sign, depicting a yellow lion, hanging above it.

Despite the decaying façade, the large room they stepped into was surprisingly neat and cozy. The room was half-full of customers drinking, eating and chatting. They didn't seem to take any notice of the four foreign men as they approached the long wooden counter lining one of the walls. A harried looking woman was standing behind it, busily wiping a dozen glasses with a rag. When she noticed them, the middle-aged woman brightened and addressed them with rapid words that d'Artagnan assumed were Venetian.

As no one in their company spoke Venetian or any Italian, there ensued a moment where they all tried to find a common language; in the end they settled for a mix of Latin and hand gestures. However, as only Athos and Aramis knew enough Latin to converse with it, Porthos and d'Artagnan were left to guess what they were speaking about.

A short exchange later the woman was shaking her head, gesturing wildly with her expressive hands. Aramis explained, "She says that she only has one free room; the city is full of visitors because the Carnival is drawing to its close." The woman continued to gesticulate, speaking all the while vehemently. "She says no one else is likely to have any free rooms either," Aramis snorted quietly, clearly doubting her claim.

Athos was nodding and the woman looked pleased, so d'Artagnan guessed that they were going to settle for the one free room available. It did not make any difference to him; he had slept in far worse places. Sharing a room with three other men would hardly be a worse tribulation than sleeping outside in a freezing rain or in a dank prison cell. He quite looked forward to settling both his own and Athos' bags in the room and maybe getting something to eat.

The transaction was clearly coming to its end; Athos gave some ducats to the innkeeper and introduced himself and his entourage to her. But as soon as he had said his name the woman lit up and gesticulated animatedly. Her next words even d'Artagnan understood. He almost would have thought he had imagined them were it not the manner in which the others reacted: Athos tensed and his expression turned stony; Aramis whitened alarmingly; Porthos was squeezing his hands into fists, muttering swears under his breath. All of it did not go unnoticed, for the woman was eyeing them speculatively.

Athos said something, sounding nonchalant. The woman smiled and then, chatting all the while, led them up a narrow set of stairs to the third floor. She opened a crooked door at the end of a short corridor, revealing a small room that held two beds and little else. Athos thanked her and she quickly vanished back downstairs, leaving the four of them standing in the middle of their new lodgings. Athos closed the door firmly.

"Did I just hear what I think I heard?" D'Artagnan asked, incredulous.

Athos' expression was grim, his lips a terrible thin line of discontent. "She inquired if I was related to the lovely Comtesse de la Fère, who is living here in the city."

"Great! We have just arrived and everything is already going to hell in a hand basket!" Aramis flopped down on one of the beds, agitated.

"I can't believe _she _is here. _What_ is she doing here?" Porthos complained, throwing his bag to the floor and taking a seat on the remaining empty bed. Suddenly weary, d'Artagnan followed suit leaving Athos the only one standing.

"Signora Modena said that the _Contessa_ is the quest of Giovanni Monteverdi and his wife. I gathered he is a rich merchant of some sort," Athos explained, sounding as tired as d'Artagnan felt.

Aramis grinned mirthlessly. "Who thinks she is here just on holiday?" His words were met by a deep silence. "Exactly. Whatever she is here for, I doubt she is up to any good."

"What do we do now?" D'Artagnan wondered. Milady's presence changed things; she was too dangerous for them to just ignore her and hope for the best.

Porthos and Aramis kept quiet. They were all looking at Athos, who had a far-away look on his face. He was clearly thinking hard; all his plans and backup plans and backup plans of the backup plans were being revised and rewritten. Finally he met their gazes. "This may work to our advantage yet."

"How?" That one word from Porthos contained a wealth of disbelief.

"A Comte looking for opportunities to invest in Venetian trade? That might be believed, but coming here without making any connections towards Venetian merchants and noblemen first? If we had had the time, we could have made our cover story more plausible. But now, it sounds just what it is, a cover story." Athos contemplated, not sounding particularly alarmed. "And that might be our best cover story."

"I don't follow." Porthos confessed. D'Artagnan silently agreed; he had no idea what Athos was hinting at. Aramis was quicker to grasp their friend's plan. "A nobleman comes to Venice in search of his disobedient wife, but cannot exactly advertise that. So he says to all –"

"That he is searching for trade possibilities." Athos nodded. "People see right through that as they already know that a Comtesse de la Fère is living here. But that is just the cover story of a cover story."

"Ingenious," Porthos said approvingly.

D'Artagnan wasn't yet wholly on board the new plan. "And how do we get her to play along?" The biggest hurdle would be in getting Milady on their side. He knew that would be impossible, as the woman was only ever on one side: her own.

Aramis seemed to have some of d'Artagnan's misgivings. "We cannot trust her," he said emphatically. "Let's not forget that the woman tried to kill us and Constance not so long ago, not to mention, she arranged the Queen to be assassinated."

"If she doesn't play along, then she exposes herself along with us. She has to," Athos reasoned.

"But we don't know her business here. What if she is working for the Duke of Orléans?"

"We have to take the risk. I have already used my name and she is using hers – if we do not acknowledge each other it would seem weird at best and suspicious at worst. And this way, we can also keep an eye on her. If she is working with the Duke, the best way to uncover that is to be close to her." Athos had all the answers. His reasons made sense, but still, d'Artagnan felt uneasy.

"I don't like this. I don't like this at all," Porthos said, again voicing d'Artagnan's thoughts. But they all knew they truly had no other choice, not if they didn't want to expose themselves to suspicion and further scrutiny. It was a solid course of action, as good a plan as they could come up with in the circumstances. And yet, how come it felt they were headed for disaster?

"Are we all agreed?" Athos asked and got three nods in response. He looked resolved and resigned at the same time. "Alright, let's go meet my wife."

-o-

Francesca Modena had hardly finished wiping the glasses, when one of the four Frenchmen thumped back downstairs. It was not the _Conte_, but the other one that could speak tolerable Latin, the handsome one. He requested some water for washing to be brought to their room and inquired if she could arrange luncheon for them, all the while smiling charmingly. She couldn't help but smile back and promise to have the water delivered soon. And what would the signori want to eat? Would they want to eat downstairs or in their room? Was there anything else, anything at all, they needed? She had seen too many charmers to be taken in; it was only good business to flirt back a little.

The man grinned wider, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Whatever food she had would be fine; they would eat in the room. After thanking her profusely, the man went back upstairs, leaving Francesca busy ordering the maid to fill some buckets with water from the canal and telling the cook to heat the remains of the morning soup. The charmer hadn't specified the food they wanted, so Francesca didn't think twice of sending them some leftovers; everything that could, would be eaten by either her staff or her customers. Unlike the rich in the city, she couldn't afford to throw perfectly good food in the canals.

The church bells hadn't yet rang their noon bells, when Francesca next saw the Frenchmen. They had left their bags in the room, and although they were still wearing the same clothes they had arrived in, they looked significantly cleaner without the dust and dirt of travel. They tipped their hats to her as they went out the front door, but no words were exchanged. Francesca continued her work, the tavern getting busier by the minute as the sailors and gondoliers took a short break for a midday meal.

After most of the midday rush had ended and the tavern was once again quiet, only the usual regular customers nodding into their drinks, Francesca left the counter. She brought a meal of sardines and squid to the room's furthest corner table. After setting one plate, two glasses and a wine bottle on the table, she sat down and waited. She didn't have to wait long; as always, he came like clockwork.

Leon took the chair opposite her and nodded his greetings. Without a word, the small man dug into his meal with relish. Long, thin fingers shoved the pieces of fish into a mouth that had difficulties chewing it all down; some of the squid pieces flopped back down to the plate and to the tabletop. Francesca watched dispassionately, having gotten accustomed to appalling table manners long ago. After Leon had gobbled up the food, he opened the wine bottle, filling both glasses to the brim.

Francesca tasted the wine, appraising it carefully. Leon instead gulped down his drink, quickly filling up his glass again. "Any news?" He finally inquired casually.

"Four Frenchmen took my last room; they arrived this morning."

Leon's beady eyes narrowed with interest. "They said their names?"

"The servant is d'Artagnan; the other two go by the names of Aramis and Porthos." She pronounced the foreign names carefully, wanting to get them right, saving the best for last. "The fourth one is a _Conte_ – Conte de la Fère."

"Any relation to the Contessa?" Leon didn't bother to hide his eagerness from her. His blotchy face was animated and he was avidly watching her, ready to absorb any information she could tell.

"I asked that," Francesca reported. "He said 'after a fashion'. They all seemed a little…rattled." She proceeded to describe the scene in detail, knowing that Leon would want to know all she could recall, however small and insignificant.

After the short tale, Leon looked thoughtful. "Where are they now?"

"They left just before the noon bells, after washing up and eating luncheon; they didn't say where they were going."

"What room did you give them?" He eyed the stairs leading up to the rooms above.

"The small one on the third floor."

Leon gave her a smirk and left the table, heading for the stairs. Francesca sighed and started to clear the dishes. She knew that in addition to cleaning the mess he had left behind, Leon assumed she would warn him if the Frenchmen came back before he had managed to search their room. Pausing in her duties, Francesca sat back down and poured herself another glass of wine. Sometimes the whole spying business seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. Nonetheless, she kept a careful eye on the front door.

-o-


	6. Chapter V: Reunion

**Chapter V: Reunion**

_Hanging and wiving goes by destiny._

_- _William Shakespeare (1564-1616)_, __The Merchant of Venice -  
_

-o- 

_The Twenty-Fifth of February, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice. _

The gondolier only needed to know that they wanted to go to Signore Monteverdi's residence; other directions were unnecessary, which was a blessing as they didn't know where his house was located. They soon learned that Giovanni Monteverdi was not unknown to Venetians: Ca' Monteverdi was one of the _palazzi_ lining the Grand Canal. Venice's richest and most important citizens had built their grand houses – or more accurately, palaces – as a symbol of their wealth and status. The magnificent buildings with their decorated facades, high columns and arches, and many ornate windows made the wide canal hold its own against the most splendid streets of any city.

The splendor of his surroundings however, was lost on Athos. D'Artagnan and Porthos were looking at the palaces and churches in wonder, watching the bustling traffic in the Grand Canal and its numerous narrower side canals with interest. Even Aramis showed signs of curiosity by observing the boats and gondolas closest to them. The vessels held a comprehensive sample of the city's inhabitants: workers, sailors, servants, merchants, nobles and more, most of them with a mask of some kind on their faces. But Athos could only think about their destination and what they would encounter there.

_She_ was here, in this same city as him, and he couldn't believe it was a coincidence. It had been five months (he refused to recall the exact number of days) since she had left Paris, and he had slowly begun to convince himself that he would never see her again. But here she was – and he was going to meet her in just a few short moments. The gondola glided ahead far too swiftly; it passed under the great stone bridge, _Ponte di Rialto_, and entered the districts of San Paolo, on their right side, and San Marco, on the left side of the bank. Just before a bend in the canal, the gondolier steered the vessel towards the right bank. It seemed that all too soon, they had reached their destination.

Athos braced himself, pushing the swirling, volatile emotions deep behind the calm focus of duty. As the gondola reached the wooden pier in front of a middle-sized _palazzo_ with a beautiful, if somewhat weather-beaten marble façade, he reminded himself once more why they were there. They – _he_ – had a mission and everything he did from then on would have to be in aid of accomplishing it. He could not be distracted by anything, however painful or enticing.

As they stepped on to the low pier, they came face to face with the palace's main door, which in usual Venetian manner faced the canal. Before Athos could instruct the gondolier to wait for them, the man had already snatched the offered money from Porthos' hand and was hurriedly steering his gondola back among the heavy canal traffic. That was a little unfortunate – the _palazzo_ was surrounded by canals on all three sides they could see; if they got less than welcome reception, they would have to swim to get to the next piece of land, or at least commandeer one of Monteverdi's gondolas that were tied to the pier.

Not one to delay the inevitable, Athos took hold of the lion-head shaped knocker. The bangs had barely stopped reverberating, when the door was pulled open. A stone-faced valet was standing before them, looking at the four Musketeers with a critical eye. It seemed he was not impressed with what he saw. Athos adopted his most haughty and commanding tone and proceeded to explain in Latin who they were and what they were seeking in shortest terms possible. The valet wrinkled his nose and then with perfect French asked the gentlemen to come inside.

The main door opened into a large entrance hall, in which they were instructed to wait. An unusually wide hallway led from the hall to the rest of the house and seemed to run through the whole building. With no hurry, the valet walked half-way down the hallway and then turned aside, vanishing from their view. They were left standing in the middle of the entrance hall in silence. There were decorative wooden benches lining the walls, but none of them made any move to sit. Athos examined what little he could see of the house, seeing a well-used but well-cared for décor. There was no doubt that the family was wealthy, but it seemed they were prudent enough not to be excessive in their tastes. The black and white checkered tile floor was exquisite but not ostentatious.

Echoing footsteps announced the arrival of a portly, middle-aged man, before he even emerged from the hallway. As he came inside the entrance hall, it became clear from his attire and manner that he had to be the owner of the house, Signore Monteverdi himself.

Any fears about unwelcome reception were immediately banished, when the man said enthusiastically, "Ah, this is most interesting! I almost didn't believe Luca, when he said a French _Comte_ was waiting in my hall!" Giovanni Monteverdi spoke accented, but quite good French.

Athos moved quickly closer to the merchant, giving him a slight bow. "My humble apologies for coming uninvited, but the circumstances are somewhat…unusual." He bet that arousing the man's curiosity would get them further than any stilted explanations.

"No need for any apologies! You are very welcome, Ca' Monteverdi never turns any visitors away. But I must admit I am quite intrigued," Signore Monteverdi said good-humoredly, looking at their worn traveling attires with interest.

"Thank you, we are in your debt." Athos inclined his head in acknowledgement of their host's generosity. "We have just arrived in Venice, having traveled from France with haste. I decided rather abruptly to come here to see what trade possibilities Venice could offer and of course to enjoy the Carnival – and to be honest, I wanted to also see my wife." He gave a self-deprecating smile for good measure.

"Your wife?" It was a question, but Athos could tell the man already knew who he meant.

"Comtesse de la Fére. I understand that she is your guest."

"Yes, I have the honor of having her as a guest in my humble house. But…oh, this is a little embarrassing – there must have been some misunderstanding –" Giovanni Monteverdi's eyes were glinting with mischief although the rest of his expression remained polite. "I thought that she was a _widow_."

An awkward silence ensued. Before Athos could concoct anything plausible, Porthos snorted, "Women, eh? A little spat and we are dead to them!"

"That is very true!" Signore Monteverdi burst into a deep laugh. The rest of them nodded their heads and tried to join in his mirth. "Sometimes my wife – if she could run me out of my own house, she would!" He looked at them appraisingly and then grinned impishly. "The Comtesse is having refreshments with Signora Monteverdi: come, let's go surprise them."

They followed their host to the hallway and then up a grand staircase. Athos changed glances with his companions and noted wryly that although it was hardly evident to strangers, the Musketeers were readying themselves for battle. They reached a landing, but continued to climb to the next floor, the principal floor or _piano nobile_ as the Venetians called it. This floor was more grandiose; the ceiling was higher than in the previous floors and the walls of the hallway were decorated with colorful tapestries. The end of the hallway opened into a magnificent ballroom with tall windows, which let in enough light to illuminate most of the corridor.

Almost directly opposite the staircase was an open doorway; Giovanni Monteverdi gestured gleefully towards it. "Come! I'm sure there are still enough refreshments for everyone." He went inside a large drawing room, and the Musketeers followed, bracing themselves for whatever would happen next.

Athos took in the room and its occupants with the trained eye of a soldier: the room had two exits opposite each other in addition to the one they had just come through; it had windows that faced a narrow side canal and the neighboring building across it; there were two women, one sitting on a settee, the other in an oak chair. One of the women was instantly recognizable. Lately she had been known as Milady de Winter, but Athos first knew of her as Anne de Breuil, before he made her Comtesse de la Fére.

"Look what I found in our hall!" Signore Monteverdi chuckled good-naturedly, beckoning to the men behind him. Athos ignored Signora Monteverdi, who rose from her chair to meet them, and kept his eyes on Anne, watching for any signs of astonishment, surprise or apprehension. Her posture tensed, her lovely eyes widened slightly and her mouth tightened for mere seconds; then she seemed to relax and a pleasant smile returned to her face. It was truly remarkable how good an actress she was.

Athos turned his focus on Signora Monteverdi, bowing to the attractive, black haired woman. "_Signora_, please excuse the intrusion. I wanted to surprise my wife. Comte de la Fére, at your service."

"Oh, this is a surprise indeed," Signora Monteverdi remarked and turned to her guest. "Didn't you say that you were a widow?"

"I might have exaggerated a little," Anne confessed with a wry smile, rising nimbly to her feet. Her dark hair was tied elaborately at the back of her head, a generous amount of soft curls left falling each side of her face. She was dressed in a lilac gown with a low rounded neckline trimmed with fine lace, the silk hugging her every curve. Like always, her beauty struck him anew, made his heart skip a beat. "Darling," her voice was honeyed, but it could have cut glass, "this _is_ a surprise."

"What a lark!" Giovanni Monteverdi enthused as he gestured for them to sit. "You must tell us all about it!"

"Perhaps the Comte and the Comtesse would first like to exchange news in private," their hostess interfered tactfully. She pointed at one of the open doors. "The library is at your disposal."

"Thank you, I think that would be best." Athos gave her a grateful smile and then looked at Anne expectantly. Without a word, she strode through the door, Athos at her heels. He left the others with the Monteverdi couple, assuming they could stand up to any interrogation they would undoubtedly have to face.

The library's door to the hallway was already closed, and Athos shut the door to the drawing room carefully behind him. The wooden paneled room with its dark bookcases was dim, the only light coming from two windows. In the middle of the floor was a round oak table, where stood a globe depicting the earth. Anne went to stand by it, her back to Athos.

For a moment, all was quiet. Then, touching the globe, she said, "The world is so big – and yet, here we are again."

He knew what she meant. Despite all the conflict, pain and betrayal between them, despite the fact that they had let each other go, somehow they found themselves once again in the same room. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

"What are you doing here?" Athos asked, not very kindly.

Anne turned around and smiled bitterly. "You ordered me to leave Paris – I left. You didn't say where I can and can't go. I recall your exact words were _I don't care_. So I came to Venice. I wanted to see the Carnival, the lagoon. There isn't anything like it in the world."

"What are you _doing_ here?" Despite his frustration, Athos kept his voice quiet. There was no telling how thin the walls were and who was trying to listen to them.

"Apparently, I have left my dull husband and have come to live dangerously in the notoriously free Venice. That is your plan, is it not? Or is it more plausible if I drop a few hints of how I have fled from your brutality?" She gestured to her slender neck, where the scars of the botched hanging were covered by a wide silk ribbon. _Token of your love_, she had once called them. "I take it I'll now have to do as you say or you'll claim I am a fraud?" Her words proved the sharpness of her intellect, although Athos didn't know how much of it was basic deduction and how much she could guess because she was in on the plot with the Duke.

"As you have been masquerading as Comtesse de la Fére, I don't see you have any grounds to complain."

"I am still your wife – at least in name, if nothing else," Anne pointed out sharply. "I was simply using my own name. And besides, you weren't making any use of it."

Although it stung, he could see her point. She couldn't have foreseen that he would ever use his title again; if asked a month ago, he himself would have vehemently denied such a possibility. "Well, I am making use of it now."

"At the behest of the King, no doubt. I can't imagine that the inquisitors would be pleased to know that the Musketeers are on their soil in secret." Anne was looking at him assessing, clearly seeking a better position for herself.

Athos refused to let her try to blackmail or threaten him and their mission. He had the upper hand. "As pleased as they would be to find out that an agent of Cardinal Richelieu is in the city."

"_Former_ agent."

"I doubt they care about the difference."

They locked eyes, both of them trying to determine how far the other was willing to go. Athos steeled his resolve. He would expose her to the Venetians, if she left him no choice. It seemed Anne believed him, for finally she sighed, "It seems we are at an impasse. Very well, I'll play along – for now. So, what's the story?"

"You guessed it already. We had some…marital problems. You left while I was taking care of some business in Paris – I sought you out. Does this fit in with the tale you have been telling?"

"Well enough. I met the Monteverdis a month ago; before that I toured Bavaria. I said I was a widow, but didn't divulge any other details." Athos had hoped she would reveal more of what she had been doing after her departure from Paris, but she was too cunning to give him much information.

"D'Artagnan plays my valet and Porthos and Aramis are former soldiers, now working for me. They go by their real names. I'll imply that our parting was less than amiable, but I will tell all who'll listen how you had my blessing for your tour of Europe, and that in addition of coming to see you I have also come to seek out trade possibilities."

"A cover story of a cover story?" She sounded slightly impressed. "I knew you could be devious if you wanted." A short silence, and then she continued impassively, "It's better to stick to as close to the truth as possible. So we have been married nearly seven years, we have no children, in the beginning we were very much in love."

"Yes," he agreed.

"You are just a regular Comte and I am your simple wife."

"I doubt that you could be simple even if you tried." The words were meant to be a scoff, but they came out almost fond. It earned a small smile from her. He hastened to add, "Whatever your purpose here is – stay out of our way."

"Don't worry – I want nothing to do with any of you." Anne strode past him. He had little time to prepare himself; she finished their exchange by quickly opening the door to the drawing room. The conversation between his friends and the Monteverdis was immediately halted and all their attention turned to the married couple coming out of the library.

Porthos and Aramis were sitting on the settee, wineglasses in their hands. Although they seemed relaxed, Athos knew them well enough to see the minimal signs of tension on their postures. D'Artagnan had adopted his new role and was standing against one of the walls, trying to seem inconspicuous, but he held an impatient expression on his face that no good valet would ever dare to show.

"All settled?" Giovanni Monteverdi asked eagerly. He eyed them from head to toe, looking like he was bursting with curiosity. It seemed he was searching for signs that they had been either fighting violently or embracing passionately.

"Everything is fine." Athos smiled – no doubt it looked horribly forced. Anne's expression remained stony. They were both completely unconvincing as a happy couple, which suited the narrative he had created perfectly. As Anne had pointed out earlier, the best lies were based on truth.

"Great!" Their host exclaimed insincerely. "I heard that you are staying in a deplorable room in some cheap tavern. That simply won't do; you have to stay here."

"That is very generous, but we couldn't –"

"Think nothing of it! We have enough room," Signore Monteverdi interrupted Athos, and then continued slyly, "And it would be cruel to separate a husband and a wife, who have just had a reunion after such a long separation. I couldn't be parted from my Elena weeks, let alone months."

The over-polite expressions with hints of telltale sheepishness on Porthos' and Aramis' faces told Athos that the matter of their lodgings had already been discussed at great length and that they had already been badgered into staying at Ca' Monteverdi. Although all of his heart fought against accepting the invitation, he knew it would be the sensible thing to do.

"Then we'll gladly accept."

"Splendid! Isn't it _Tesoro_?" Giovanni Monteverdi turned to his wife, who looked amused and cautious at the same time.

"Yes, very. I look forward to getting to know my friend's husband – whom I had no idea existed."

"Elena –" Anne begun hesitantly, but then fell silent.

"You'll tell me all about it later, I'm sure." Signora Monteverdi smiled gently at Anne, but there was no mistaking the steel in her voice.

"I wouldn't mind hearing it either," Giovanni Monteverdi chuckled. Seeing his wife's admonishing glance, he quickly changed the subject. "I'll be happy to show you the best Venice has to offer. And you have arrived just at the right time – the best Carnival celebrations and balls are still to come." He poured red wine from a beautiful carafe to a glass, which he handed to Athos with a sharp and assessing gaze. "We can also take a look at some profitable trade possibilities – after all, you'll be living under the roof of a very successful merchant, if I say so myself."

It became crystal clear that the Comte de la Fére would not leave Venice without investing money on Giovanni Monteverdi's business. It seemed that in addition of a mischievous and curious nature, the man was also a shrewd businessman. Athos could respect that. He inclined his head as a sign of assent and watched as the Signore could hardly contain himself from rubbing his hands together in glee.

"Great! We dine at home tonight – dinner is at six o'clock. Your valet can bring your belongings, and I'll tell Luca to get your rooms ready immediately. Unfortunately, the room we have for _signori_ Aramis and Porthos is at the servants' floor, but I promise it is bigger and better than the one in the tavern. Your valet can room with one of my male servants, and of course there is more than enough room in the guest bedroom for the Comte." Giovanni Monteverdi grinned jovially.

Athos barely prevented himself from spluttering into his wine. How could he have not foreseen this? Surely, this would be a fate worse than death: he would have to share a bedroom with his estranged, dangerous, homicidal wife. He downed the remaining wine in his glass with one gulp. He would need more wine to survive this reunion – a lot more.

-o-


	7. Chapter VI: Suspicions and Doubts

**Chapter VI: Suspicions and Doubts**

_La raison et l'amour sont ennemis jurés. (__Reason and love are sworn enemies.)_

_- _Pierre Corneille (1606-1684)_, __La Veuve, ou Le traître trahi_ (_The Widow, or The Betrayer Betrayed_) -  


-o-

_The Twenty-Fifth of February, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice. _

Signore Monteverdi was happy to lend one of his gondolas with an experienced boatman to take Aramis and d'Artagnan back to Signora Modena's tavern. In fact, the merchant insisted that during their stay in his home city, his visitors were free to use his gondolas any time they wished. For a foreigner, Venice could be a confusing maze; although not very big, the city had hundreds of canals and bridges, lanes and alleys, many of them leading to dead ends. Getting lost was a rule rather than an exception, at least for those that had not lived in the city their whole lives.

Aramis was in a foul mood from their hard journey and everything that had happened since their arrival to the city, so he was glad to get to the tavern and back as quickly as possible. He sat in the richly decorated cabin of the gondola, not wishing to see his surroundings, but more importantly, not wanting anyone to see him. It was a pleasant way to travel, but he wondered how they would manage to conduct their investigation in secret, if the Monteverdi's boatmen ferried them everywhere. Poor d'Artagnan had to travel outside the wooden cabin, although there was room for him inside, for it was no place for a servant. But judging from the wide-eyed stare that had been on his face since their arrival, perhaps he was still enjoying the sights and sounds of the foreign city. Aramis however, was tired of Venice already. His thoughts were far away, in Paris.

Was the Queen still cloistered in the palace or had she resumed her normal duties? How was she feeling? Was she thinking of him at all? Was everything between them irrevocably over, forever?

Perhaps it would be best, if it was over. If he could get her out of his mind and heart, maybe then he could concentrate fully on his duty – and that was all there would ever be between them, _duty_. Then he wouldn't be so unhappy, so lost, so helpless; all the things he detested, that made him act and sound and _be_ so unlike himself. No wonder Porthos hovered around him like a mother hen, a permanently worried expression on his face. It would be truly best, if their affair or connection or whatever it was, was over. It wasn't as if the Queen needed him; she had made that very clear. And maybe then Athos would finally be satisfied and cease to give him those irritatingly disapproving glances.

The gondola thumped against a pier, interrupting Aramis' desolate thoughts. They had arrived in front of the tavern they had left just a few hours ago. It was time to focus on the mission, to be the Musketeer in the service of his King, Queen and country. Aramis exited the cabin and rose to his full height, body and mind alert. But still, he felt horribly like an impostor, someone who was doing their utmost to pretend to be a soldier, but was everything but.

Signora Modena was again behind the counter, serving drinks. She watched with avid eyes as Aramis and d'Artagnan headed straight for the stairs. Soon they were safe from curious looks inside their small room, which truly was as abysmal as Giovanni Monteverdi had imagined. Although Aramis wanted to be as far away from Milady as possible, he could admit that they would be much more comfortable in Ca' Monteverdi's luxurious rooms. Even though his and Porthos' room was in the attic amongst the servants' quarters, it was nicer than anything he had ever had for himself in Paris.

D'Artagnan moved to gather their few belongings, which were still lying where they had left them. The room seemed undisturbed, but still –

"Wait!"

D'Artagnan stopped and turned towards Aramis, a questioning look on his face. Aramis shook his head, frustrated. "Does everything seem to be in its right place?" He asked, already knowing the answer. Everything was _exactly_ as they had left it, but Aramis had a feeling that someone had been in the room while they had been gone. It wasn't anything tangible, like a wet footprint left behind or belongings in a wrong place, but he had learned to trust his instincts long ago. Sometimes the mind could see things that other senses could not detect.

"All seems to be like we left it," d'Artagnan confirmed. "You think someone has been here?"

"Maybe." Aramis took hold of his bag and quickly made sure everything was still there. Whoever had been in the room hadn't taken anything – and why would he? He had been no ordinary thief and the Musketeers had certainly left nothing important or revealing for him to find. But it was not a good sign, that someone was already suspicious enough of them to search their room. All of Venice seemed to be full of snakes. Speaking of which –

"Milady is somehow involved with the Duke of Orléans." Aramis was certain of that; it was too much of a coincidence for her to be there now. "We have to keep a very close eye on her. There's no telling what she is plotting – we have to watch our backs."

"Yeah, I know," d'Artagnan agreed. Having been the target of Milady's lies and seduction before, he knew perhaps better than anyone – besides Athos – just what she was capable of. "At least she cannot plot in secret while Athos is watching her every move."

"_Everyone_ needs to watch her," Aramis countered emphatically. "She has proven to be very persuasive and seductive. She'll take advantage of any weakness, anything she can use to her own purpose. I fear she knows exactly how to get her claws into Athos."

D'Artagnan pursed his mouth; like always, the lad was unwilling to believe that the man he looked up to had serious weaknesses. "Athos would be the first one to admit that he has a complicated history with her, but he has proven that he'll put the mission and what is right above it."

"He let her go."

"You didn't give any protest at the time," d'Artagnan reminded him.

"No, I did not," Aramis sighed. It had been the right thing to do; Aramis was quite certain that executing his former wife would have destroyed his friend for good. And the Queen had been alive and well; it hadn't mattered that the one who had sought her death had gotten mercy – not until his child and love had gotten none.

"I trust Athos," d'Artagnan said firmly, "don't you?" His eyes were sincere, his believe steadfast. Suddenly Aramis felt the worst kind of friend.

"Of course I do. But I have lived long enough to know that sometimes love – or guilt, or any other kind of strong emotion – can completely banish any reason. Athos…the last time he was this close to her, he was her adoring husband. Don't underestimate the power of happy memories."

"She killed his brother." D'Artagnan had already gathered his and Athos' things and was standing in the middle of the room, facing Aramis with a steady look. "Do you think he can ever forget that?"

Aramis shook his head, but didn't answer; he didn't know how to. He didn't believe that Athos would ever forget Thomas' death, but things weren't as white and black as d'Artagnan presented. Never forgetting didn't mean never forgiving, for example. He took hold of the rest of the bags and went to the door, effectively ending the conversation. 

-o-

Antonio Gabrieli, Inquisitor of the Supreme Tribunal of Venice, had just retired to his study after a stodgy dinner, when a servant interrupted his quietude to announce that Leon was at the door. Although all the servants of _Il Rosso_ were loath to trouble their master when he was in his study, they knew that Leon was no ordinary visitor. He was to be let in at any time – were it day or night.

Gabrieli didn't need to say anything; a slight nod and the servant knew his orders. Soon Leon stepped inside the study, shutting the door carefully behind him. The small man had been in the room many times before and forwent the greetings and customary politeness; he sat down in his usual high-backed chair and went straight to the point. He had learned long ago that his employer didn't appreciate people who wasted his time with empty prattle.

"Four Frenchmen arrived this morning from Mestre, and they took a room in Modena's tavern. They told that their names were Conte de la Fére, signori Aramis and Porthos, and a valet called d'Artagnan. They had lunch and after that they left. A few hours later the valet and Signore Aramis came back only to get all of their things and give up the room; they refused to say why. I followed them back to Ca' Monteverdi – it appears that they are now staying there."

Gabrieli listened to Leon's account impassively, the new information joining the facts already known to him. In his mind, he quickly repositioned the pieces on the board and started to plan and adjust his moves accordingly. All the while he listened carefully, knowing that Leon rarely told anything useless.

"The word is that the Conte has come to Venice to look for trade possibilities and to see his wife. It was implied that the Contessa left her husband rather abruptly. I searched their room; there wasn't anything to suggest they are not who they claim to be. But they are traveling very lightly. I sent out inquiries to Paris, but it may take some time to get answers."

"And the Contessa?" The beautiful Frenchwoman had been under surveillance the moment she had come to Venice with the Monteverdis.

"Still nothing overly suspicious. She hasn't met the Duke or anyone linked to him."

"And what about the other one?" Gabrieli didn't have to specify who he meant. The stone-faced Frenchman, who had arrived the day before, had instantly been noted to be someone, who had to be kept on very close watch.

For the first time, Leon fidgeted a little, revealing his nervousness. "_Pierre_, or whatever his name really is, has been mainly staying in his lodgings and walking aimlessly around…he, ugh, managed to lose his tail yesterday – after half an hour, we found him again in la Piazza."

Only a slight frown betrayed Gabrieli's dissatisfaction. His opponents seemed to be in place, but they hadn't yet revealed their moves. However, he knew that the inaction was deceptive; they were all planning and scheming. Soon time would run out and if someone wanted to stop the Duke's plans, they would have to risk acting out in the open. When that happened, _Il Rosso_ would be ready for them. 

-o-

Louise unfastened the corset, but still Anne felt short of breath. She was highly aware that Athos was just behind the door, in a room they now had to share together. A litany of curses – towards Signore Monteverdi, who couldn't stay out of other people's business to save his life; towards the _bloody_ Musketeers, who just had to come and ruin everything – had been swirling in her head the whole evening, but she had been unable to release the words, always in the company of someone who expected her to act like a lady.

Now Anne itched to release her frustration and rage, but once more, she had to bite her tongue. She knew that Louise would not be bothered by coarse language; the unflappable maid had only blinked when informed that her mistress had a husband she had never even heard of. Louise knew not to ask any questions, and furthermore, having spent a part of her childhood in the streets of Paris – much like Anne herself – she had undoubtedly heard every manner of curse and insult already.

Athos believed the worst of her, so Anne doubted he would be much amazed if she let loose a few choice words. However, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how upset she was by his intrusion into her well thought-out plans. She would not reveal anything to him, especially not how badly the Musketeers' arrival had complicated things. Already the smug bastard believed he had the upper hand – well, let him. It would be all the sweeter, when Athos would finally realize how wrong he had been.

After a cursory wash Louise handed her mistress a clean linen chemise, which Anne put on quickly. The dressing room was not heated, and the damp and chilly air was starting to seep beneath her skin. She knew she couldn't linger much longer without getting uncomfortably cold, but the mirror above the side table drew her gaze. Did she look any different than when she had married him?

"Anything else, Milady?" Louise had gathered the gown and undergarments, putting them neatly into their places. She stood calmly behind Anne, her reflection a small blur at her mistress' shoulder. Suddenly Anne realized that Louise had been with her longer than most of the people she had known.

"No thank you; you can go." As the maid turned towards the dressing room door, Anne forced the words out, despite her initial hesitation to address the matter. "Louise. My husband and the men with him – you are to say nothing to them. They are not to be trusted."

Louise nodded her assent; she had already guessed as much. The door closed behind her, and Anne sighed deeply – the image in the mirror sighed too. Her dark hair flowed freely down her back; the white chemise covered her arms to the elbows, her thighs to the knees. Anne touched the ribbon still tied around her neck. What Athos saw, when he looked at her? Did she look like a murderer?

The cold shook her body, and disgusted, Anne tore the ribbon from her neck, throwing it to the floor. She would not cower in her dressing room like a coward. She had already met his accusing glare unflinching – she would do so again. She would show him that he could not affect her anymore.

Anne put out the candles and opened the door to the bedroom, refusing to hesitate any longer. A candelabrum beside the bed was the only light left; the bedroom was full of dark shadows. Athos had not been idle while she had been readying herself for bed; he had undressed partly and now lay in a settee, his long legs sticking over the armrest. He had the pillow she had thrown him from the bed and a blanket he had gotten from somewhere else. He had to be deeply uncomfortable.

There was a rapier on the floor beside the settee, within an easy access. No doubt the rest of his weapons were tucked under the pillow and the blanket. What did he think – that she would try to murder him while he slept?

Athos didn't move, when Anne dashed to the large four-poster bed. She was certain that he was awake, but he remained motionless as she blew out the candles and burrowed under the soft covers seeking warmth. A lone sliver of moonlight came from the gap left between heavy curtains, infiltrating the bitch black of the room. If she turned her head, she could see his form on the settee.

Breathing deeply, Anne closed her eyes, willing her heart to cease its restless pounding. Now was the time to finally think properly, to strategize in peace. It was clear that the Musketeers were in Venice because King Louis had sent them; the reason for that had to be the Duke of Orléans. It was obvious, even without the confirmation she had gotten during the very awkward dinner they had suffered through that evening. Athos had carefully, in a roundabout way, probed if some of his fellow countrymen were also staying in Venice. Their host hadn't needed anything else to launch into a long tale of how the Duke of Orléans himself was there enjoying the Carnival. The Musketeers had hung on every word and had almost snapped into attention, when they had heard that the Duke was staying in Ca' Gonzala. It was clear that the Duke was their target.

But what were their orders? The Musketeers probably sought to arrest the Duke, but first they would need proper evidence. They were acting in secret, so they didn't trust the Venetians to help them. Anne knew they had to suspect her too. It didn't matter that they had no proof; to them she would always be the deceiver, the spy, the murderer. But how different were they really? Hadn't they too killed? Weren't they there at that very moment deceiving and spying, pretending to be something they were not?

If she held her breath and listened closely, she could hear him breathing. Earlier, when they had retired to their room under the intolerable grinning of Signore Monteverdi, Athos had been expressionless and silent. He had refused to look at her, choosing to gaze anything else instead – the tapestries had been particularly fascinating. Damn him! Just when she had finally landed on her feet, had made a solid plan of action and had a course to follow, he turned up and she was on uneven ground again.

She wouldn't give up her plans. She couldn't; her livelihood depended on it. The Musketeers would certainly complicate things, would make everything that much harder, but Anne knew she could complete her task. She had succeeded in worse circumstances many times before this. Maybe she could even use their presence to her advantage…

Satisfied, Anne let herself rest. She lay in the dark, waiting for sleep. Somehow, she knew that Athos too was still awake. They hadn't been so near each other for a long time, not without threats and accusations and the promise of violence. Now there was only a half a dozen feet between them, and once again they lay together in darkness, silent. Before, they had been on the same bed, so close they were touching from head to toe. They had breathed the same air, watched each other with the happiness that comes from knowing that everything you have ever wanted was in your arms. She had felt utterly safe, completely true, unshakable in her belief that they would remain so, happy and in love, forever.

Then it had all shattered. The true nature of the world – of men – had broken the foolish dream and left behind only bitter darkness and ruin. Hell had taken back what it had owned.

Anne knew better than to dream anymore. There were no wishes or prayers on her lips, no false hopes. But still, if she could have sold her soul a second time, she would have gladly done so that very moment, just to feel Athos' arms around her again, to have him hold her like he had before, so very long ago, in another life. 


	8. Chapter VII: Plans in Motion

**Chapter VII: Plans in Motion**

_Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,_

_Only we die in earnest, that's no jest._

_- _Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618),_What is Our Life?_ -

-o-

_The Twenty-Eight of February, 1631._ _Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Her mistress was having a midday stroll with Signora Monteverdi, so Louise was finally able to rest her feet for a while. She had already made sure that Milady's evening gown was ready for the coming party, that some of her other clothes were being properly washed by the household's servants, and that the guest bedroom was being cleaned throughout. Louise would have perhaps an hour before her mistress would need her again. Eager to escape the other servants – especially the sour-faced head valet Luca, who seemed to think he could give orders to _her_ – she quickly climbed the backstairs to the attic. Louise was sharing a small room with two maids, but for the time being the girls were busy downstairs with household chores. For once, she could have the room for herself.

Louise bounced the last few stairs up and almost collided with a man on the landing.

"Whoa, careful there!" The man exclaimed, steadying her with a hand on her arm. It was the Comte's valet, d'Artagnan.

"Excuse me," Louise mumbled, irritated and embarrassed. She moved to go past him, but the young man didn't give her any room, standing stoutly at the top of the stairs.

"You are Louise, right?" He smiled bashfully, seeming harmless and kind. Louise didn't believe him for a second. She doubted the man was even a valet, and if he was, then judging from his work he wasn't a very good one. Louise refused to smile or even nod her head.

D'Artagnan's smile dimmed a little, but the man couldn't take a hint and so he continued, "I thought…well, it's kind of lonely here around all these Venetians – I can't understand a word they say. Since we are both foreign here, I thought…that is perhaps we could…"

Louise sighed. They would be standing there the whole day, if she didn't put him out of his misery. "If you are trying to get me into bed with you, then the answer is most definitely no."

"No!" D'Artagnan blushed and shook his head. "Of course not, I don't – I just thought that if you wanted to talk or to go somewhere…to see the city, nothing untoward or shady, I promise!"

In spite of herself, Louise was amused. She did believe he hadn't meant to proposition her, but otherwise his sincerity was surely an act. "If you stop blocking my way, perhaps I could believe you."

The young man turned even more crimson and quickly moved out of her way. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to corner you. But I would like to have some company – what do you say?" He smiled hopefully.

Louise stepped into the corridor, keeping as much space between them as possible. Despite her suspicions, he was quite endearing and for a moment she felt a temptation to accept his invitation. But it was only for a moment; soon her inherent common sense and caution prevailed. "I really don't have the time, but thank you anyway," Louise answered firmly and went quickly past him, before he could say anything else. Soon she was alone in her room, thoughts restlessly racing in her head.

The arrival of the four Frenchmen had clearly rattled her mistress; especially the Comte, who claimed to be her husband. Louise wasn't privy to Milady's schemes, but she knew her mistress earned her living with less than savory ways. She would follow her mistress' lead; if Milady said her name was Anne de la Fére, Louise repeated that name until she could say it in her sleep. If Milady said she had a husband Louise had never even heard of, then she would repeat the lie until it was the truth. But this time, Louise had a feeling that maybe for once her mistress was telling the truth. Or at least the truth about her name and husband. The way the two were with each other…There was a wealth of history there; certainly wariness but also familiarity.

Whatever the Comte's relationship with her mistress, the Frenchmen were not their allies or friends. As Milady had said, they were not to be trusted. The meeting with d'Artagnan had proven that Louise would have to be careful. The valet would need more than bumbling words or charming smiles to affect her; in spite of her young age, Louise wasn't any naïve country girl, easily charmed by handsome looks and little attention. She had grown on the streets of Paris and had seen many swindlers and crooks and liars. She knew all their tricks.

Louise closed her eyes and lay on the narrow bed. She didn't want to think about the past. Never again would she be so hungry that even stealing could barely keep her alive. Never again would she be forced to fear for her life and what little remained of her virtue. Milady had seen her, had given her a chance, a better way to live. For that, Louise owed her everything. And she would never, not in a million years, betray her mistress. Not for gold nor power, and certainly not for any endearing smile. 

-o-

Piazza San Marco was teeming with people, full of noise, colors and life. The huge square, which was the central of Venice, its pride and beating heart, was full of Carnival entertainments and amusements. Wooden stalls and stands were offering anything from food and drink to magic tricks and tarot card readings. Jokers, acrobats, fire-eaters and troupes of actors fought for the attentions of passers-by. Exotic animals from faraway lands were displayed for the amazement of children and adults alike. The magnificent _La Piazza_ and the grand buildings lining it were an extraordinary sight on any given day, but during the Carnival it was like a scene from a fairytale or a dream.

On their second day in Venice, Giovanni Monteverdi had proudly showed the Musketeers this symbol of Venice's power and wealth as he had given them a tour around his home city. They hadn't had to fake their interest or how impressed they were with their surroundings. Now two days later, Porthos and Aramis were back in the square, this time with a task more pressing than mere sightseeing. They had followed the Duke of Orléans and his small entourage of soldiers to _Palazzo Ducale_, the Doge's Palace. The great palace was the residence of the Doge, but it also housed the institutional chambers; the many halls, meeting rooms and offices of Venice's counselors and state officials.

Following the Duke was the first part of their plan, although it was unlikely to yield much success. It seemed that so far the Duke met his conspirators either in Ca' Gonzaga, where he was staying, or in _Palazzo Ducale_. Either place remained inaccessible to the Musketeers for the time being. However, it was important to observe who the Duke met, where he went and who accompanied him. The heir to the French throne was never alone; at least a half a dozen men flanked him, most of them experienced soldiers. Getting near him wouldn't be impossible, but it certainly wouldn't be very easy.

Tailing the Duke was mainly Porthos' and Aramis' responsibility, since they could leave Ca' Monteverdi without too many questions. Their host took much of Athos' time, showing him the various business ventures he had a hand in and introducing him to other merchants. Porthos didn't envy Athos' task; he had to play interest in dull business talk and somehow also keep an eye on his former wife. D'Artagnan however had gotten the most boring part of their plan, for maintaining his role required that he for the most part followed Athos around silently, getting all the dullness but none of the advantages. He had another task though too; he was to strike a rapport with Milady's maid and get as much information out of her as he could. Maybe d'Artagnan could get some enjoyment out of that at least.

Porthos swallowed the last of his strangely flavored meat pie, wiping his greasy fingers on his trousers. He and Aramis were leaning on the white marble columns of the Doge's Palace. The building's arcade faced the _Piazzetta,_ which was the adjoining space that connected the main square with the lagoon. It was an ideal place to wait for their quarry; it was next to the palace, but still a public place. People were resting under the arcade's shade, just passing by or watching the street performers. Porthos and Aramis had spent the better part of the afternoon there, pretending to watch the play a troupe of actors were enthusiastically performing. It was called something like _Othello, the Moor of Venice_ and was quite obviously a tragedy as most of the characters ended up dead.

When Othello had killed himself a second time, Porthos turned towards Aramis. "They are getting lackluster; the performances aren't as energetic or arresting this time around. But I bet dying half a dozen times during a day takes the shine out of it."

"What, so you are a theatre critic now?" Aramis' eyes kept roaming the crowd. They hadn't exchanged many words over the last hour, each focused on their task – and on their own thoughts.

"I'm just saying, they should really take a break. If not for their own sanity, then for mine. I don't know how long I can watch that drivel."

"Oh, I don't know…I find the play quite riveting," Aramis smirked.

"How long is he going to be?" Porthos fidgeted, trying to find a more comfortable position against the pillar. "Maybe he has already left and we missed him."

"We didn't miss him."

"Then maybe he left via another exit."

"He didn't leave via another exit."

"How would we know?" Porthos' back was beginning to hurt from leaning against the hard stone. "We have been staying here for hours, being tortured with bad performers and meat pie tasting suspiciously like old fish, having nothing more to drink than one cup of wine – _one_! He could be back in that grand palazzo he is staying, eating and drinking his fill, taking a nap on his soft feathery bed…"

Aramis snorted, clearly amused by his friend's theatrical tone. "You should be one of the performers with that tale of woe. He is still there – two of the soldiers from his entourage are there by that acrobat." He gestured towards a group of people standing in a circle around a small skeletal man, who was twisting himself into strange and very painful looking positions. The two soldiers were instantly recognizable from the rest of the crowd, for they wore no masks.

"Well, maybe they were left behind." Porthos didn't want to abandon his doubts readily; not least because he hadn't seen the two men, which made him a little embarrassed. Maybe he had focused on that blasted theatre group more than he ought.

"Maybe," Aramis conceded, but they both knew that didn't mean that they could leave their post until the Duke appeared or it became absolutely clear that they had somehow missed him. "But they showed up a minute ago, so perhaps that means he is ready to leave."

Porthos felt a little better hearing he hadn't missed the soldiers' presence for more than a few minutes. They really were quite obvious amid the masked crowd. Porthos was glad that Signore Monteverdi had gifted Carnival masks to them – they could stand hours on the square and attract little attention. The half-mask covered the eyes, nose and upper cheeks, but more importantly, it made its wearer just one among many. That way, they could follow their target without exposing their identities. However, the large number of masked people in the city also meant that they themselves could be easily tailed. Porthos had seen a man with a black robe and a white, whole face mask a few too many times to not became suspicious, but who knew if the man was even the same man – similar masks and outfits were plenty around them. All the same, it made him nervous.

Porthos scrutinized the Duke's soldiers. They were laughing and walking towards a street vendor, who sold wine. They didn't seem to be in any hurry. "Another hour and we are going to miss dinner. How are we going to explain that to our terminally curious host?"

"We just simply lost the track of time amid such splendid pleasures."

Porthos looked at a flock of prostitutes, who were quite openly exhibiting their charms to any interested onlookers. "Were that the case."

For the next half-hour they continued to survey their surroundings silently, but the Duke didn't appear and the soldiers didn't make any move to leave the _Piazzetta_. Porthos was hungry, bored and frustrated; this part of the mission was always his least favorite. Tomorrow evening couldn't come soon enough, when with some luck, all the waiting and watching would come to an end and they would finally get some results. Marquis Gonzaga was having a party at his palazzo and apparently all the important people would be there. The Musketeers could hardly be called important people, but as Monteverdi's guests their host's invitation had been extended to them. It was the perfect opportunity to get inside Ca' Gonzaga and search the Duke's rooms for the treaties.

"I'm going to stretch my legs." Porthos took a step away from the pillar, feeling a twinge in his back. He eyed the Duke's soldiers, who had gotten their cups of wine and had now stopped in front of an old man purporting to be a magician. Maybe he could get close enough to hear what they were saying.

"Don't do anything too rash," Aramis warned, guessing what his friend had in mind.

"When do I ever?" Porthos grinned and started to slowly meander amid the stalls, performers and crowds of people. He kept his eyes on the soldiers, but stopped a few times to watch a fire-eater and a joker, not wanting to approach his targets too quickly. He wouldn't have to have worried about exposure though; when he stopped to stand behind the soldiers, they were too much in high spirits to notice that they were being listened. But there Porthos' good luck ended; the men talked about women, what they wanted to do in Venice, how the magician could make the eggs disappear – in short, _everything_ else than what Porthos wanted to hear. He turned towards the arcade, giving Aramis a dejected look. He got a wide grin in return.

At least Aramis seemed to be acting more like his old self. Despite Athos and Aramis clearing the air between them during the journey, Porthos' worry hadn't abated. Something was still weighing on Aramis' mind. Many times he had thought about raising the issue with his friend, mostly when they were in their room, but despite the privacy, the time seemed never right. Besides, they were in the middle of a mission, and Porthos didn't want to rock the boat. Aramis seemed focused on their task and maybe he was finally getting over whatever had been eating him inside. It would be better, if Porthos didn't interfere with that.

Suddenly the bells of St Mark's Basilica's bell tower started ringing. _Campanile di San Marco _stood in the corner of the piazza, close to the great church and the Doge's Palace. The bells rang on the hour, but Porthos was certain it wasn't yet the time for the next ringing of the bells. Some of the performers finished their shows and people were starting to gather at the lagoon-side of the _Piazzetta_, near the two large granite columns.

Porthos glanced back to Aramis; his friend had already left their surveillance spot and was walking towards the amassing crowds. For a moment Porthos was confused, for it wasn't like Aramis to abandon his post even when something unusual was happening. But then he saw what had drawn the other Musketeer away; the Duke of Orléans had arrived to the scene in the company of a troop of soldiers and some Venetian counselors, Leonardo Gonzaga among them. Porthos quickly moved to get to Aramis' side. All around them, people were chattering excitedly, pushing each other aside for a better look. It was obvious that something interesting was happening.

Porthos reached Aramis fairly quickly, despite being nearly run over by a company of women, whose voices were raised to such a pitch Porthos thought for a moment he would go deaf.

"What do you think is happening?"

"Nothing good." Aramis' expression was grim. There was a horde of people in front of them, but they could still see clearly the wooden stage that had been erected between the great columns. On top of one of the pillars stood a winged lion – the symbol of Venice. Behind the stage, the pale sun glistered on the surface of the lagoon, the boats and ships like black dots of various sizes against the hazy sky. Porthos suddenly felt a chill go through his body; he knew what was about to happen. The bells had rung for an execution.

Soon Porthos was proven to be right. A wretched looking man was escorted to the scene and hoisted on to the platform. His hands were bound, his clothes ragged and dirty, his frame emaciated by his time in a prison cell. The eyes on his ashen face couldn't settle anywhere; they moved from face to face, as if he was looking for someone. Not so long ago Porthos had been in that man's place, waiting for a very public death. He wondered if the man was innocent.

An expectant hush fell over the crowd as a darkly dressed man stepped on to the stage with a large battle axe. He was followed by one of the Venetian councilors, who loudly announced the offences of the convict in both Venetian and Latin.

"What did he say?"

"The convict is guilty of treason against the Republic of Venice. Because he has confessed his crimes, has given up the names of his conspirators and has prayed for mercy, he has been given a death by decapitation." Aramis sounded impassive, but Porthos knew he wasn't unaffected. Witnessing an execution was never a common thing, even if it was an "easy" death, like relatively quick and painless decapitation. Sometimes there was a place for it, for the worst criminals had to be punished by death, but still, to Porthos it felt unnatural, even perverse. Death happened in the heat of a battle or a brawl; it came in dark alleys and shadowy forest paths and snowy fields. For him, it was the consequence of disease, wounds or killing; it was rarely premeditated, seldom deliberately cruel. Executions were spectacles for the common people, a twisted play he detested.

The man seemed to be resigned to his fate; without prompting, he kneeled and bowed his head as the crowds shouted abuse and jeers. The executioner raised his axe – a powerful swing and it was over. The crowds cheered. Porthos was in a foreign country, amid foreign people with foreign customs, but death and people's reaction to it was the same here as everywhere else.

"I wonder if it even crosses his mind that by all the laws and justice, he should earn the same punishment as that man." Aramis was watching the Duke of Orléans fixedly, his face stony.

"Yeah, well let's talk about it later." Porthos was uneasily aware that there were too many people around them; any one of them could perhaps understand French. The Duke's entourage seemed to be leaving, and after courteous goodbyes the Duke walked towards the heart of the piazza, Aramis and Porthos on his tail. To Porthos' relief, the entourage headed for Ca' Gonzaga; soon they could relinquish their watch and he would be able to enjoy Monteverdi's delicious dinner with some of the best wines he had ever tasted.

But long after they had left their quarry behind, Porthos couldn't help but think about Aramis' words. The Duke of Orléans, even if caught red handed with the treaties proving his treason against the King, would be unlikely to suffer the same fate as the nameless man in the piazza. He was one of the highest ranking nobles in France, the King's brother, the heir to the throne. And if one put aside all that – what was the right punishment for treason? Was public execution justice or just vengeance?


	9. Chapter VIII: On the Prowl

**Chapter VIII: On the Prowl**

_Her whispers trembled through these credulous ears,_

_And told the story of my utter ruin._

_- _Nathaniel Lee (c. 1653-1692)_, __Mithridates: King of Pontus, a Tragedy_ -  


-o-

_The First of March, 1631._ _Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Their plan dissected and analyzed, every possible contingency taken into consideration, they were as ready as they were ever going to be. Athos looked closely at each of the men gathered in Porthos' and Aramis' room. His friends all looked ready, eager and capable, although some of them would have a more dangerous role to play than others. It fell on Porthos and Aramis to search the Duke's private rooms. Athos would just have to get through the night among the nobles and richest merchants of Venice without arousing suspicion, while d'Artagnan would have to remain behind in Ca' Monteverdi.

"Are you sure I can't come?" D'Artagnan sounded slightly petulant; Athos understood his frustration, as he too didn't take kindly to sitting and waiting while others did the necessary, potentially dangerous, work. But there wasn't any believable reason for d'Artagnan to accompany them – servants were not invited to Marquis Gonzaga's famed masked ball.

"The Monteverdis are not going to bring any servants with them; Ca' Gonzaga has more than enough," Athos reasoned, but declined to pacify his young friend more than that. He knew that despite his protestations, d'Artagnan understood and would do what was best for their mission.

"Perhaps you can take another shot at Louise," Porthos teased, "and this time not to come across as a bumbling idiot." D'Artagnan blushed slightly. He had done the mistake of telling others the full details of his encounter with the maid. It had amused his comrades greatly, perhaps more so because there was so little to laugh about their current situation.

"I'll do just fine, thank you," d'Artagnan retorted, making Porthos guffaw in disbelief. Their young companion smiled good-naturedly in response, conceding, "I'll _try_ at least. And I can do more – I can search Milady's room." He turned towards Athos eagerly, willing to do more than to just wait for the others to come back.

Athos shook his head. "It's no use. I already searched it, when I had the chance. She has not left anything incriminating for us to find." He grimaced in remembrance; while he had been elbow-deep in her undergarments drawer, it had dawn on him that the moment was probably a new low for him during the mission. In addition to a few hidden daggers, he hadn't even found anything interesting. No secret correspondence or suspicious vials of liquids nor a contract with the devil signed with blood. The search had been utterly futile. What was worse: he was pretty sure she knew about it. She had traded especially vicious barbs with him that night.

"It doesn't hurt to search again, there's little risk; if he is caught, as your valet d'Artagnan has a plausible reason to be there," Aramis suggested. The others were in agreement with him, so Athos acquiesced, although he saw little chance for success. But perhaps it would be prudent to give d'Artagnan something meaningful to do.

"Don't worry – I won't go through your things," the young Musketeer promised mock-solemnly.

"You better not," Athos threatened, half-serious. Privacy had always been important to him; even more so after he had lost everything he had loved nearly six years ago. What little he had had left, were it memories or a certain locket, he had guarded almost jealously. Although he had since learnt to let go, had taken hesitant steps to confide in his friends, old habits were hard to shed.

"It's time," Aramis said, smoothing down his doublet. All except d'Artagnan had donned their best attires and Carnival masks. The Monteverdis had decided that the best time to arrive at the party was half-an-hour after the given time, so they could be fashionably late; now that time was fast approaching.

"Have fun," d'Artagnan wished airily, making a good effort to hide his apprehension. They all knew that if they were caught their whole mission would irrevocably change. They would have to be ready for violence, arrest and interrogation. It would be a completely different game.

"You too," Porthos winked. Nothing more needed to be said; they headed down the stairs. As Athos stopped at the next landing, his friends continued to the entrance hall on the ground floor. Athos had a duty he couldn't shirk – he had to escort his wife to the waiting gondola. Heart suddenly heavy, he stopped for a moment before the doors of the guest bedroom, steeling himself for what waited him inside.

The last few days had been a special kind of ordeal he had never imagined. It was discomforting to see an echo of the once so dear smile, to recognize small habits and gestures that he was once so intimately familiar with. Athos had tried to separate the woman he had once loved from the woman who had killed his brother; the enticing dream from the brutal reality. But with every hour spent in Anne's presence, he was starting to reluctantly realize that the lines were not so easily drawn; the things he had loved about her existed in the woman before him, and the woman he now shared a room with had somehow been present all along in the wife he had adored. As difficult as it was to accept, they were one and the same, had always been. The woman who had loved him so passionately was also the woman who had coldly murdered Thomas.

He did his best to banish these thoughts, but the small signs of the past – the way she twined a lock of hair around her finger absent-mindedly, how she slanted her head slightly as she contemplated something – they woke memories of better times and made it sometimes nearly unbearable to be in the same room with her. Ironically, he wasn't supposed to let her out of his sight; it made him irritable, curt and cold towards her, a fact that surely only reinforced the story of how she had fled from her cruel husband. It didn't go unnoticed, but although Signore Monteverdi's affable nature wasn't affected by Athos' behavior, the Signora had grown sour towards him, no doubt disapproving of the way he treated her friend.

Just as Athos was going to enter the big guest bedroom, the double doors were suddenly opened and a young maid hurried out. Louise gave him a hasty curtsy before she vanished down the corridor, leaving Athos standing in the doorway.

"Are you coming in or are you just going to stand there?" Anne was in all her finery; the salmon pink, short-sleeved gown was embroidered with intricate patterns of small flowers, and she had wrapped a long string of pearls around her neck, covering her scars. She was sitting on the bed, fastening dangling pearl earrings to her earlobes. Athos' gaze was inevitably drawn to the small high-heeled shoes and silk-stockings her skirt had risen to reveal.

"Are you ready?" He asked, rather stupidly. He hated that she could render him witless by just flashing her ankle.

"Close the door." He didn't have a good reason not to comply. As Athos pushed the doors closed, Anne stood up, the long hem covering all but the toes of her silver gray shoes.

"Would you mind?" There was a small mask dangling from her hand. His mind as carefully blank as he could make it, Athos took the mask and stood behind her. Her dark hair was up in delicate swirls; apart from the shining rows of pearls, her neck was bare and vulnerable. He lifted the mask and fitted it against her face; he was so close his fingers brushed her hair, the shape of her ear. As quickly as he could manage, he tied the silk ribbon behind her head and then stepped back as if he had been scalded.

Anne turned, her mouth widening with that blasted smile from the past. "Thank you." Decorated with silver thread, the Carnival mask was like a piece of jewelry. It covered her eyes and nose, but it could not hide the graceful lines of her face. She picked up a matching cloak and draped it over her shoulders.

"We should go." He was already turning towards the door, wanting to put some distance – and other people – between them.

"Wait," Anne said. It was more of a request than a demand; Athos told himself that was the reason he stopped. She looked solemn and a little hesitant. "Athos…whatever you are trying to do here – I could help you. Surely it wouldn't be so intolerable to trust me?"

"I'll never trust you." His words may have been harsh, but his tone was soft.

Her expression tightened and her eyes hardened. "Fine – but you could still use my help. You are on foreign ground here and you have no allies. The Duke –"

"What about him?" Athos tensed. If she knew about their plan – that would be a whole new hurdle on their way.

"Oh please; it doesn't take much to deduce that you are here because of him. He is notoriously treacherous." Anne took a step towards him, her piercing gaze never leaving his face. "He has dozens of men; you have just three."

"As I have said before – keep out of our way."

"And what happens, if whatever ploy you have hatched is exposed? I'll be dragged in to the most-likely very bloody aftermath," she huffed, clearly annoyed.

She was right. To the outside world it would seem that she had been in on the plan – at the very least she had known their true identities. The Venetians would interrogate her, perhaps punish her too. And if Anne wasn't scheming against them, she didn't deserve to suffer from their actions. "I'll tell them the truth – that you had no part in it," Athos assured.

"And if you get what you came here for?"

"We'll leave. Don't worry; you can continue this…farce as long as you like. I won't reveal your lies, if you don't interfere with our mission." He would leave her be and hope that their paths would never again cross.

"And if I did? Would you really see me tortured or killed?" She challenged, smiling wryly.

"It's in your own hands," Athos evaded the question he didn't know the answer to.

"In _my own_ hands," she repeated mockingly. Her laugh was empty, void of any mirth. "For the longest time…in every man I kissed – or killed – I imagined your face." She closed the gap between them, coming so close that he could feel her breath on his face. Just an inch and they would have been touching. "And what about you?" Her voice was quiet, deceptively tender. "Were you thinking of me every time you were with a woman? Were you wishing it was me every time you thrust your blade into someone's heart?"

"No," he denied, throat parched.

"Liar," she whispered in his ear. She wasn't entirely wrong.

Heart beating restlessly with her nearness, her words awoke thoughts and memories he would have rather forgotten, Athos took a single step back. For his relief, his voice came out steady and emotionless. "The others are waiting." Carefully keeping his expression calm and collected, he offered her his arm.

Anne's eyes, full of intense feelings he wasn't ready to name, stayed on his face. "Anything for the mission." She placed her hand on his arm, like a burning brand. Wordless, Athos escorted her down the stairs to the pier, where others were already waiting for the Comte and Comtesse de la Fére.

The whole way to the Ca' Gonzaga, she held onto his arm. As the echo of the familiar smile, the aching feel of a well-known touch continued to haunt him, he could only think about one thing: how could he had ever thought that this would be a good idea?

-o-

After the weapons were carefully concealed beneath his dark clothes and everything else he needed was in the bag, Gérard headed down the stairs. It was late enough that the inn was full of people drinking and seeking company after a long workday. Some were already three sheets to the wind, either animatedly telling tales or morosely stirring up trouble. No one paid much attention to the foreign lodger, who went straight to the door. No one but a lone drinker in the corner; the weather-beaten sailor left his half-full cup to the table as he followed the Frenchman outside.

The city had been blanketed by darkness, only a few torches were burning sporadically on the walls of buildings. It was a dangerous environment: a narrow turn of the lane could lead straight into canal or the steps on a walkway could vanish suddenly beneath murky water. Gérard strode confidently forward. He had used his time in the city well; he had walked the alleys and walkways of Venice many times a day, until he was confident that he could navigate successfully in the maze-like city. He knew which bridges he had to cross and which lanes to follow to get to where he wanted.

Most of the walkways were deserted and eerie, and the only sound in them was the thumping of boats against the piers and the sides of canals. Gérard had no fear; he knew he was the most lethal animal on the streets. Certainly he was more dangerous and cunning than the man following him.

The shape of a familiar church opened before him, and Gérard turned quickly to the right following a narrow alley. He crossed a bridge that was nothing more than an old wooden door and then turned suddenly into a small lane that didn't lead anywhere. He stopped, back against a brick wall and waited.

Soon small sounds of footsteps came nearer and the shape of a man emerged from the darkness. Gérard was ready; before the man realized that his quarry was waiting for him, the roles had already been reversed. The knife penetrated the flesh easily as the Frenchman knew exactly the best place where to push the blade. The Inquisitor's spy toppled over with a soft cry. No one was around to hear him or to see his body dumped into the canal. It made a small splash and vanished under the surface.

Gérard traced his steps back to the empty square that was dominated by the façade of a giant-like church. There was a small drinking fountain against one of the buildings; he washed his hands carefully under the cold water, just in case. It was too dark to see if his hands were stained with blood. Keeping an eye on any movement, Gérard got his Carnival outfit out of the bag. He donned the white whole-face mask and the black robe, knowing he would be next to impossible to recognize as the Frenchman, who lodged in _Calamaro_.

He continued his journey, only rats for company. The city seemed to be deserted – as if the dark houses were as devoid of people as the streets, and the cloths and furniture, the food and other goods within had been all left to slowly rot in the dank air. But soon there were more torches on the walls, the flames mirrored on the surface of the dark water in narrow canals. A few shouts and short bouts of laughter cut the air. A gondola suddenly emerged from a side canal, the lantern on its stern swinging slowly to and fro. More houses showed signs of life; one of them had an open balcony door, revealing shapes of men gathered around a table, gambling.

As the Grand Canal came into view, the city changed its appearance dramatically. There were numerous lights on the water; gondolas making their way up and down the main canal. Many of the great palaces were brightly lit, the lanterns and torches showing their extravagant riches. Venice was most certainly not deserted or slumbering – its people were gathering for merriment.

Most of the gondolas were heading for the same place; the huge gothic palazzo Ca' Gonzaga. The palace of Marquis Gonzaga, a rich and powerful member of the Council of Ten, rose above other buildings in its vicinity. On the banks of the Grand Canal, it was only a few alleys and one small bridge away from where Gérard was standing and watching the arrival of richly clad guests.

He waited for a moment, and then judging that most of the guests had freshly arrived to the ball, he walked to the back of the palazzo. This was the moment that the bustle and hustle would be at its greatest; the servants busy getting the noble guests settled, trying to fill their every wish. As Gérard had anticipated, the backdoor of the palace opened regularly, as the servants came outside to ditch scraps and waste to the side canal or darted to the cold air just to get some relief from the furnace that was undoubtedly the palace kitchens. It was easy to slip inside unnoticed; after that he acted like he belonged there and no one dared to challenge him.

Without hurry, he familiarized himself with the palazzo, memorizing the exits and the layout. The palace was a huge five-story building, but it was easy to guess where different rooms were situated. No doubt the Duke's rooms were on the fourth-floor that was closed to the guests; there was a bored looking valet standing on the fourth-floor landing, politely directing straying people back the stairs to _piano nobile_, where most of the ball was taking place.

Gérard mingled with the nobles and merchants, but carefully kept himself out of any conversations. He moved from room to room, sipping wine from his crystal glass, taking notice of the different people he could recognize and the ones, who were clearly soldiers, there to safeguard the host and his important guests. The Duke of Orléans was the center of attention; a circle of sycophants surrounded him, bowing and scraping. Gérard kept well away from them, but observed the Duke inconspicuously. It was early yet – he would have to wait for the right moment.

Suddenly Gérard's attention turned to the wide doorway to the ballroom; a new group of people pushed their way through the crowd to the room, and although Gérard had anticipated that they too would arrive to the party, he couldn't help but tense. He didn't doubt for a second that the three Musketeers and Milady de Winter didn't have their own plans for the night, but they would do well to keep out of his way – he was still the most lethal animal on the prowl.


	10. Chapter IX: The Masked Ball - part 1

**Chapter IX: The Masked Ball - part 1**

_Pour tromper un rival l'artifice est permis; on peut tout employer contres ses ennemis._

_ (To mislead a rival, deception is permissible; one may use all means against his enemies.)_

_- _Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-Duc de Richelieu et de Fronsac (1585 – 1642) -

-o-

_The First of March, 1631._ _Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Gold, silver and crystal gleamed in the warm glow of hundreds of candles. The grand rooms were decorated with rich fabrics, gilded furniture, beautiful tapestries and the famed Murano glass, in every color imaginable. However, the people crowded into these large rooms were not easily overshadowed by their magnificent surroundings: dazzling diamonds and precious stones worth a small kingdom adorned both women and men dressed in finery. Fashion styles ranged from the conventional Spanish dress to the exotic attires found in Ottoman Empire, from the most extravagant outfits to simple disguises. All wore a mask, either a small one that just covered the eyes or a larger piece, like the monstrous contraption that imitated the head of a three-headed beast. Marquis Gonzaga's masked ball was the most fantastical and sumptuous party Athos had ever been to, full of opposing and whimsical details.

From the first moments of arriving to the ball, Athos had hardly had time to draw his breath. Signore Monteverdi had dragged him excitedly through different rooms, eagerly introducing _his_ guest, Comte de la Fére, to different people. The merchants and some of the nobles were quick to latch onto his company, seeking ways to make money out of him or to use him to get more influence and power. Just as many deemed Athos uninteresting and beneath their notice, taking their leave after stiltedly exchanging the obligatory civilities. He bowed and smiled politely, answered questions as briefly as he could, admired Venice and praised the ladies. In short, he acted like a Comte, all the while remembering just why he hated these kinds of functions above all else: nothing there was real.

Aramis and Porthos had vanished into other rooms, no doubt to carefully take stock of the situation. Athos envied their task; he too wanted to just merge into the crowd, to be a stranger whose name and face didn't matter. Instead he had to pretend like he was enjoying himself, while keeping a close eye on Anne. Athos didn't dare to let her out of his sight, fearing she would somehow ruin their plan. He had to keep her out of Aramis' and Porthos' way, so he refused to let go of her arm, dragging her inconspicuously with him to every room and corner Signore Monteverdi led him.

Anne seemed to take it all in stride; she didn't try to dislodge his hand, but stood calmly beside him. She was the very image of a Comtesse, polite and charming, witty and interesting, the perfect counterbalance to Athos' laconic and sometimes too straight-faced manner. He watched how she subtly got everyone to either admire or like her, even the other ladies, who were all competing against each other for attention. He was again reminded how dangerous she really was: she didn't need weapons or money to make people give her what she wanted. Unlike Athos, Anne seemed to enjoy the party, not exhibiting any disquiet or impatience. From time to time she stole glances towards him, an amused smile on her lips, like they shared a mutual secret.

After a while even Signore Monteverdi had exhausted his enthusiasm to introduce Athos to every single person they encountered; the Venetian merchant seemed almost relieved, when his wife demanded that he take her to the ballroom to dance. After the Signore had vanished from his sight, Athos politely withdrew from the conversation he had been drawn into, leaving the gentlemen and ladies to argue about Florentine art versus Venetian art without him.

"You look in desperate need of a strong drink," Anne remarked dryly, when they had found a relatively crowd-free spot along one wall. "Should I get you one?"

"I'm sure I can find one soon enough." Despite the open windows letting in the chilly air, the rooms were uncomfortably hot; the warmth of hundreds of bodies pressed in close and the open flame of countless candles raised the temperature to stifling.

"I know how you hate these things," she teased good-naturedly, "you always liked the quiet and simple life; just us in our home."

"Us – and Thomas." Athos didn't know why he said his brother's name. Maybe he needed to remind himself as much as he needed to remind her that there had been three persons living in that house. That she couldn't ever brush Thomas aside.

Anne was quiet, her eyes on the surging, noisy crowd. A sea of bodies and none of them knew of the significance of the name that had just been uttered. Athos shuddered involuntary. He needed to keep his brother's name between them, for everything else she had done – every horrible, murderous thing – he could perhaps forgive, but never Thomas. Never his brother.

"I need a drink too," Anne finally said, starting to move away from their place against the wall. Athos tightened his hold on her arm. There was no way he would let her vanish into the crowd. Anne stopped and turned. For the first time that evening, her lips were pursed up in anger.

"This is getting quite tiresome – are you going to hang onto me the whole evening?"

Athos smiled bitterly, never loosening his hold. "Surely a man is permitted to keep his wife close in this den of adulators and traitors?"

Anne gave a very unladylike snort. "Fine, whatever you want. But I'm not going to stand here stupidly all night – you're getting me that drink, and then you are taking me to dance."

He proceeded to do just that. Athos flagged down a servant carrying a silver tray with a row of crystal glasses. He quickly snatched two, full of dark liquid, and offered one of those to Anne. The servant gazed in amazement, as they both downed their drinks in one go, grimacing at the strong taste. The unfamiliar alcohol burned Athos' throat but settled pleasantly at the bottom of his stomach. He took the empty glass from Anne's hand and put it back to the tray with his own, smiling wildly at the poor servant. No doubt he looked half-mad. Then he led his wife to the ballroom, where the current dance was just coming to its end.

The ballroom was a huge, long hall that was decorated with stunning frescos in the walls and the high ceiling, depicting old Roman gods and goddesses in the middle of their own merriment. A row of floor-to-ceiling windows covered entirely one of the long walls, revealing a stunning view of the Canal Grande; some of the windows were open, leading into a big balcony. At one of the narrower sides of the room was a platform, where the orchestra played their instruments. A mass of bodies filled the rest of the space, moving to the music, making patterns with their partners.

Athos had never been particularly fond of dancing; too often it had been forced upon him, and it had been both tedious and awkward. He had felt himself to be an abysmal dance partner, not particularly good in either dancing or giving into the kind of conversation his partners seemed to be expecting of him. It had all changed, when he had met Anne. They hadn't been in many balls or parties together, but the ones they had been were made bearable by the fact that he could take hold of her and twist and turn and guide her in the dance floor, keep her close.

Athos knew it was a bad idea even before he guided her among the other dancers, and it became the worst idea, when some of the couples demanded _la volta. _The musicians started to play the requested dance, beginning it with _gaillarde, _which was far from his favorite dance. It had a compilation of steps with leaps, hops and jumps that the dance partners did side by side, holding hands. The dance was fairly fast and had little room for error. The only pause the dancers got was when one of them stood still as their partner danced around them. First, Athos focused solely on the movements of his legs, certain he would make a misstep; he hadn't danced in a long while. But the movements were etched in his muscle memory, like the different fight patterns and sword moves.

When he was confident enough in his steps, Athos became acutely aware of his dance partner. Anne was a graceful dancer, gliding beside him and around him with precise steps, her hand on his warm and firm. As she danced, her eyes never moved from his face; he was the center of her fierce focus. As it came his turn to stand in place, Anne danced nimbly around him, the weight of her gaze anchoring him. He could do nothing else than to look at her, to be drawn into their own private space where there was only the music and their bodies advancing and retreating from each other; the rest of the dancers were just a blurry movement around them, the murmur of some forgotten sea.

They didn't talk, not even when they came close enough to hear each other. They had made a voiceless agreement not to shatter the delicate balance between them; this one dance was neutral ground, under a white flag. A fleeting moment in time, when Athos didn't have to feel guilty about wanting to keep hold of her hand, for waiting heart pounding for that moment when finally the music changed its tempo and they moved closer to each other. He took hold of her waist, just below her busk; the other hand he placed firmly on her back. Anne put her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her up as she sprang up into the air. When they had turned almost an entire circle, he let her down. They repeated this intimate movement for several measures, Athos drawing her into him, lifting her into his arms, until they had to part again and start the steps of the dance from the beginning.

He moved like in a dream, hardly noticing the steps and hops his legs automatically made, his eyes on her face, waiting. He knew she was waiting too; finally the steps brought them close and he could once again take hold of her. Athos lifted her up, and the rest of the world seemed to stop. Anne was firm and alive under his hands; her chest was rising with rapid breaths, her smooth skin glistened with perspiration, her cheeks glowed with healthy redness. He drew her nearer still, pressing her body against him. Her hands were squeezing his shoulders, the nails sharp even through two layers of fabric. Once he had lifted her up much like this; they had been half-naked then. The move had ended in a different kind of dance. Judging from her dark eyes, she remembered the same.

Suddenly the world rushed in: a jolt to his back, a loud laugh nearby. Athos realized that the music had stopped; the dance had ended and some couples were already leaving the dance floor, while he still held Anne up in the air. Slowly, carefully, he set her down. The moment ended.

With some reluctance, Athos led them from the ballroom, wanting to find something to eat – and more importantly, something to drink. He knew he couldn't get drunk, but a few glasses of that good liquor was definitely needed. Before he could find either food or drink, he was halted by a Venetian gentleman in dark attire, with a red leather mask on his face.

"Comte de la Fére," the stranger said in perfect French, bowing, "it is such a pleasure to finally meet you. Please let me introduce myself to you and –" the man took hold of Anne's hand, kissing it lightly, "to your lovely wife." Athos inclined his head and the stranger continued, smiling, "My name is Antonio Gabrieli, at your service."

Athos schooled his features, hoping that nothing in his expression gave away his surprise and tension at having one of the Inquisitors, _Il Rosso_, seeking his company. Did the man know or suspect something? "Nice to meet you," Athos forced himself to say.

"I wholly concur with my husband; however, you must excuse me from your company – Signora Monteverdi needs me." Anne's smile was unruly, and she gestured towards their hostess, who was indeed gesticulating for Anne to come to her. Athos had no choice, but to let her draw her arm away from his.

"Of course, _milady_," the Inquisitor bowed to Anne, "I'm sure we will meet again soon."

Anne turned towards Athos and with an impish glint in her eyes, she kissed his cheek gently. "Don't worry, _mon coeur_, I won't go far." Athos watched as she walked to Signora Monteverdi, and the two women started to eagerly whisper among themselves.

"Newly married?" Antonio Gabrieli asked, seeming amused. His mask covered the upper parts of his face, leaving the mouth and jaw bare; it revealed some of his emotions – depending on that they were real and not faked.

"We've been married nearly seven years."

"Ah – I congratulate you. In my experience, it's rare that the ardor of the first year of marriage survives the second," the Venetian chuckled, "but I watched you dance earlier – you are a very lucky man."

Athos bristled with sudden anger, and he struggled to keep the noncommittal expression on his face. His eyes kept sliding to watch Anne; she had found a drink and was still animatedly conversing with her friend.

"I have heard _so much_ about you," Antonio Gabrieli continued. Although he was still smiling, his eyes were cold.

"Likewise," Athos confessed, not bothering to mask his grim voice. He was now certain that _Il Rosso_ knew who he really was or at least suspected – the man had dropped enough hints.

"I see my reputation precedes me." Finally the Inquisitor let the smile fade from his face, so the sharp lines of his mouth matched the harsh glare of his dark eyes. "Just as well – I find it much easier to do my job, when people know what to expect from me. I don't like surprises, especially in my own city. It's my duty to know _everything_." He chuckled mirthlessly, warrior's eyes assessing his opponent. "I'm afraid I am one of those people, who insist that everything will be done their own way."

"And how often are things done your way?" Athos asked, assessing the man in turn.

"Always." Antonio Gabrieli's voice was flat, unyielding. "You'll find that I always get my way." The men locked gazes, neither willing to give in. _Il Rosso's_ mouth stretched into a sardonic smile, that Athos was certain was finally the man's real smile. "Enjoy your evening – and your stay in Venice." The man didn't bother waiting for Athos' reply; he turned on his heels and disappeared into the crowd.

Rattled despite himself, Athos felt a tension creep into his muscles. The Musketeers had a new, unpredictable enemy, who had power and resources that they currently lacked. He hoped that Aramis and Porthos would be careful – and that the Inquisitor had just been testing the waters and didn't really know who they were and what they were planning. But Athos wasn't an optimist or a fool – he was quite certain that Antonio Gabrieli knew much more than he had let on.

Athos started to make his way towards Signora Monteverdi, but stopped short, when he realized that in the circle of ladies around her, there was no glimpse of the familiar shape, the salmon pink dress. Frantically, he searched the room with his eyes, but Anne was nowhere to be seen. Athos had lost her from his sight – and he just knew it didn't bode well for him or for his friends.

-o-

They didn't waste any time enjoying the party, which Porthos thought was a shame, judging from the hungry gazes he bestowed both upon trays full of delicious food and strong drink _and_ upon ladies wearing low-cut gowns. Aramis however, was glad that they didn't have to loiter among the insufferable partiers, who were currently spending as much wealth as it would take to feed the entire population of Paris for a whole year.

Having first explored the main floor, _piano nobile_, taking note of the exits and possible hindrances, they quickly moved to the next floor, where the living quarters of the family were situated. Although both the main staircase and the narrower stairs which the servants used were under guard, the men guarding them weren't particularly vigilant. Aramis and Porthos easily deceived the young valet, who was standing at the top of the main stairs, after they had first managed to dodge the slightly more alert soldier stationed near the staircase at the main floor.

The fourth-floor seemed eerily silent and empty after the mad throng of the floor below. The rooms were richly decorated, full of gilded furniture and fine art: they were fit for a king. Aramis and Porthos crept along the long, wide corridor, trying different doors. Most of them opened easily, revealing small salons or bedrooms that obviously belonged to women or children. Few were tightly shut and their locks had to be picked open. The first locked door revealed a study that no doubt belonged to the master of the house, and although it may have contained interesting documents, they carefully closed the door and moved forward. They found their target behind the second locked door: a suite of elegant rooms comprised of a salon, a large bedroom and a dressing room.

A familiar rapier, resting against a chair, revealed who the resident of the suite was; they had seen the Duke of Orléans carrying the sword during the times they had followed him through the streets and canals of Venice. Aramis was certain that they had found the right place. Now they just had to find the treaties; luckily they had plenty of time, as the party had barely started and would continue long into the night. However, the biggest threat was that someone – a servant or the Duke himself – would for whatever reason come to the rooms in the middle of the ball. Although the fourth-floor was currently empty, there were no guarantees that it would remain so.

Aramis and Porthos didn't need to talk about what they were going to do; they had planned it all in advance. Although the search would go quicker with two persons searching, Aramis stayed in the corridor as Porthos went into the Duke's rooms. His task was to be on guard and give warning if anybody approached them. Full with nervous energy, Aramis would have preferred to be the one to search the rooms, but as only he could speak Latin, it was better if he was standing guard.

The corridor was deadly silent; the only noises came from the Duke's rooms. Through the slightly ajar door Aramis could keep track of his friend's progress. It sounded like Porthos was opening the drawers of the bureau and the desk, tapping on the wood to find secret compartments. Aramis knew that only very few missions were easily completed without any hurdles or surprises, but he couldn't help but hope that this one would be one of them. He itched to return to Paris; although everything between him and the Queen had to be over, he wanted to see her, just to make sure that she was all right. The dark, pressing feeling inside him had only grown as more days passed, and the distance between Paris and Venice seemed to acquire more miles every moment. They never should have come to this foreign place and leave the Queen – and the King – vulnerable.

Aramis tried to banish Paris and all that it entailed from his thoughts; he had to focus on the here and now. Although Gonzaga's guards and the Duke's soldiers had so far been criminally incompetent, Aramis knew that it all could change in a moment. But they needed to get those treaties – only then could they detain the Duke and make their way back to France.

Suddenly footsteps echoed in the corridor, coming round the corner; it was all the warning Aramis got that someone was approaching. There was no time for hesitation, only seconds to decide. Should he shut himself in the Duke's rooms with Porthos and hope the person wasn't heading there? Or should he deflect the attention away from the Duke's rooms? Aramis followed his instincts: he rapped on the door and pushed it shut, knowing Porthos would catch on to what was happening. Then he took as many steps as he could away from the door and sagged against a wall. He was just in time: a middle-aged man strode into view from behind the corner, coming to a sudden halt as he saw Aramis.

Aramis leaned against the tapestry and mumbled incoherently, making his legs unsteady. Unluckily, the man wasn't any ordinary soldier, for he was the Duke's Captain of the Guard. Whenever he had escorted his master around the city, the man had been vigilant and efficient. Aramis would have to put up his very best effort to fool him.

"Hey!" The Captain exclaimed, hand already on his rapier. "What are you doing here?"

"What…" Aramis winced, trying to straighten up unsuccessfully, "what?"

The man took a good look at Aramis, lips pursing in distaste. "You cannot be here, this is the private quarters."

Aramis frowned like he didn't entirely understand what was being said. He took a wavering step towards the man, claiming, "Need the privy – where's…where's the privy?"

"Not here," the Captain said sharply, assessing how drunk Aramis really was. "Go back downstairs and the servants will show you."

Aramis gave a convincing belch. Playing drunk was his specialty; he had had to convince people on numerous missions that he was in a drunken stupor. Nine out of ten times it worked surprisingly well – as in now. The Captain seemed to deem that Aramis' drunken confusion was real; he took a hard hold of Aramis' arm and dragged him towards the main stairs. Aramis didn't protest, but went pliantly along, as it got the man further away from the Duke's rooms and Porthos.

"You there!" The Captain barked to the valet, who was standing at the top of the stairs, startling him. "How did he get here?"

The young valet looked at Aramis, his face blanching. He shook his head and muttered something in Venetian. The Captain sighed and pushed Aramis roughly towards the valet. "Just make sure he gets to the privy – and that he doesn't come up here again."

Aramis had no choice but to let the valet lead him downstairs and to the privy, acting all the while drunk. He knew he couldn't go back to the fourth-floor; if he was twice discovered there, the game would be over. Porthos was now on his own.


	11. Chapter X: The Masked Ball - part 2

**Chapter X: The Masked Ball - part 2**

_Le feu qui semble éteint souvent dort sous la cendre._

_(The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes.)_

_- _Pierre Corneille (1606-1684),_Rodogune -  
_

-o-

_The Second of March, 1631._ _Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The moment Athos' constant attention towards her relented, his focus wholly elsewhere, Anne seized her chance. She had already lost too much time, unable to get away from Athos' watchful gaze. The Inquisitor's sudden interest in Athos had come as a welcome interruption, although it was also more than worrying – but Anne would think about that later. Now she had an assignment to perform and no time to lose. Maybe she was already too late and Aramis and Porthos had gotten into the Duke's rooms; she hadn't seen the pair anywhere for a while. But then again, just because they had perhaps searched the rooms didn't mean that they had found what they were looking for. She still had a chance.

Hastily, but trying to be careful, Anne strode confidently towards the backstairs. She knew from experience that creeping about only attracted attention; the more purposeful she seemed, the more people would think that she had every right to be there. A bored-looking watchman was standing next to the stairs, coming slowly into attention, as he saw Anne approaching. Before the man could say anything, Anne quickly remarked that she needed to rest her feet for a moment in peace – casually like it was no big matter, but forcefully enough that the man didn't want to argue with her. Without any hesitation or backward glance, Anne started to climb the stairs, and the watchman let her; he had no desire to challenge a rich noble woman.

At the fourth-floor landing Anne halted, taking a deep breath. After the heavily crowded rooms and the constant movement and noise, the floor was jarringly empty and quiet. She felt hot, her skin itching in the confines of her silk dress. Her heart had hardly had the time to settle, still fiercely pounding in the rhythm of the music. Athos' touch had left her rattled, uneasy. The line that had been drawn between them, the line they weren't meant to cross – it shifted again and again, until she didn't know where it was anymore. Damn him! Why did he always have to make everything so complicated?

Resolutely, Anne pushed the muddled thoughts away, concentrating on the empty corridor before her. She had some idea where the Duke's rooms were situated – undoubtedly he would have the best rooms with a view of the Grand Canal. Certain of the right direction, Anne went to the left, her steps echoing lightly in the corridor. She looked appreciatively at the beautiful tapestries that covered the stone walls; if she had had more time, she would have liked to study the intricate patterns that formed pictures of scenery and people. She could only guess what story they told with their bright thread.

Soon she was nearing the right door; behind it had to be the Duke's rooms, hopefully empty. Anne had come up with dozens of scenarios, different ways she could turn the situation to her advantage, if the two Musketeers were really inside the suite. But nothing had prepared her for what happened even before she had a chance to try the door: from the opposite end of the corridor, a tall man walked into view, coming towards her. A man dressed in dark breeches and doublet, with a black cloak and a white whole-face mask.

Instinctively, Anne knew the man wasn't one of the Duke's soldiers, nor did he belong to the Gonzaga household. The masked man came to a standstill, looking at Anne. There were more than half a dozen yards between them, and still the man's intense gaze seemed to penetrate her very bones. Anne shivered, feeling exposed. A sudden, inexplicable terror started to take hold of her, as she stood riveted to the spot, like she was unable to move.

It was impossible to see the face behind the horribly expressionless mask, but Anne could sense the malice, the sheer danger, surrounding the man. The simple mask itself was somehow awful, but the dark eyes in it – they were terrible, empty and familiar. She didn't know why, but all of a sudden Anne had the feeling she _knew_ him. And he knew her.

It felt like they both stood there a long moment, frozen with surprise, just watching each other. It couldn't have been very long however, perhaps only half a minute, while they both furiously thought to adjust their plans. It was painfully obvious that they both were there in secret, without the consent or knowledge of the owners of the house. Anne glanced hastily at the Duke's door, estimating if she could manage to get into the rooms and lock the door before the man could stop her – and why did she think he would try to stop her? She just knew, and that instinctive knowledge had saved her skin many times; she wasn't about to question it now. The man wished her harm, and would not let her escape to the rooms he probably himself wanted to get into.

As if he had heard her thoughts, the masked man moved, suddenly striding towards her with violent purpose. Blood rushing with the imperative to flee, Anne put her hand to the door handle, hoping that against all odds, the door would not be locked. If it was –

The man increased his speed, getting alarmingly closer. To her relief, the handle started to turn. But before the door could open, before the man could take another step towards her, a shout echoed in the corridor.

"Milady!" The watchman, who had let Anne upstairs, emerged behind a corner, coming hurriedly towards them. For a moment the masked man and Anne froze again, uncertain how to handle this latest threat. Their eyes met, and although she could see nothing of his face, Anne had a feeling that the man was grimacing wryly. Then the man pivoted around and walked swiftly to the way he had come, leaving Anne to face the panting watchman alone.

"Yes?" Anne tried her very best to pull herself together, to dispel any anxiety from her voice, to not give any indication that her heart was still racing from fear. Her expression haughty, she hoped she looked suitably annoyed.

The portly watchman halted, looking at Anne and then over her shoulder. No doubt the masked man had already vanished. "Who…who was that?"

"I have no idea. Isn't it your job to watch who goes here?" The man winced at the cold words or perhaps at the arrogant tone of her voice. "Well, what do you want?" Anne had turned away from the Duke's door, hoping that the man wouldn't notice where she had tried to go.

"Forgive me, milady," the man sputtered, "but I was wrong to let you –" At her sharp gaze, he quickly amended, "to send you here. These are the private quarters, and we have been instructed to let no one here. There is a salon downstairs, where the guests can rest."

There was no suspicion in the man's eyes. It seemed he had simply regretted that he had let her upstairs and had come to rectify the situation. Anne thought about trying to persuade him into letting her stay, but quickly came to her senses. Although the man was intimidated by her, he would not be pressured into ignoring his orders again, not when he had come all the way upstairs to fetch her.

"Very well," she sighed, put-upon, and then continued to admonish, "but you could have said something a little earlier."

The man blushed crimson, "I'm so sorry, milady. It was my fault."

Annoyed, but knowing she had no other option, Anne started to walk towards the stairs, the blundering man hurrying to catch up. It seemed she would have to gain access to the rooms another way – the old fashioned way.

Back in the third-floor she turned to address the watchman, "I hope that the man upstairs has a reason to be there." She was certain the masked man also wanted to get into the Duke's rooms. If he tried again –

"He won't get far," the man assured her, "I'll make sure the guards check the whole floor." Back in charge, the man preened with self-importance. Anne didn't bother to answer; she entered the first salon she came across, quickly moving to the next, when she didn't found what she was looking for.

Finally, in the fourth room she entered, she found him. The Duke was holding court in the oval shaped sitting room, sprawling on a settee, surrounded by dozens of simpering ladies and lords. The young Duke was widely considered to be a handsome and entertaining member of the royalty, but also a pompous schemer. As a third son of Henry IV and Marie de' Medici and an heir to the throne, Gaston was important figure in French politics, although he currently was practically banished from Paris. Anne had heard a lot about him, but had never actually met him face to face.

Someone bumped into her – from the corner of her eye she saw a flash of a white mask. She spun around quickly, ready to defend herself, wishing fervently that she had more weapons on hand than the small dagger hidden in her corset. But she was confronted by an old man, whose lofty belly and gouty fingers were a far cry from the menacing power of the masked man she had met upstairs. Even the white mask was markedly different, covering only partially the face and painted with black geometrical designs. Anne brushed the offered apology aside, irritated by her own skittishness.

Resolutely, she went nearer to the Duke, hoping he would notice her. One didn't just introduce oneself to the Duke – they had to wait for someone to do it for them. But as she stood near the circle of sycophants, it became increasingly clear that she would have some fierce competition for the Duke's attention. All the ladies present were doing their utmost to attract Gaston's favor, and it seemed that one of them, a beautiful fair haired woman, was already half-way into securing a place in his bed. Anne could only hope she wasn't too late into the game.

As she had calculated, it didn't take long for the Duke to notice a new, young woman hovering around him. Pleased and interested by the attention, he summoned her to him, asking for an introduction. One of the lords, who Anne had met earlier in the evening with Athos at her side, was eager to curry favor and quickly introduced the Duke of Orléans to the Comtesse de la Fére. After that everything else depended on how well she could flirt with Gaston, how much she could draw his attention away from her competitors to herself. Anne quelled her distaste and went to work.

She knew all too well what was needed. Men, after all, were all the same. A few breathless compliments, a couple of come-hither looks, a flirtatious smile, and the Duke's attention was firmly fixed on Anne. The fair haired woman doubled her efforts; it seemed she would not give up easily. Attractively dressed, the Venetian woman was no novice, and she knew all the tricks of the trade, was educated, bold and charming. She could only be one of the lauded and famed courtesans of Venice, at the top of her profession. Anne gave the woman a honeyed smile; there was no way anyone would get the better of her.

"Excuse me," Athos' voice rang loud and clear; he had suddenly appeared beside her. "_Darling_, I need an urgent word with you." Anne tensed, cursing her luck and Athos' determination to keep harassing her. His calm veneer had cracked and he looked livid, eyes hard and mouth a thin line of displeasure. Before Anne could make up her mind – to resist or to acquiesce? – Athos took a tight hold of her arm. It became clear that he wouldn't give her a choice, and that he would drag her out of there, even if he would cause a scene. And to all the people surrounding them, he would be completely within his rights to do so; after all, Anne was his wife and his to command.

Nevertheless, she just _couldn't_ go quietly. "Can't you wait a moment _dear_? As you can see, we are in the presence of royalty." She gave her most dazzling smile to the Duke. Athos' eyebrows twitched.

"No," he growled. He gave a barely-there bow to the Duke, muttered a very insincere, "Excuse us," and yanked her hand, forcing her to follow him out of the room. Athos was behaving like a jealous husband, but Anne knew there was much more to it than that; he must have thought that she was interfering with the Musketeers' mission – and he wasn't exactly wrong.

Athos dragged her through various rooms, no doubt searching some place that was at least somewhat private. His fingers held her forearm in a bruising grip; the last time he had held her so purposely roughly, he had playacted to deceive her, but this time the force of his anger felt real. A small sliver of unease started to spread in her, but it was tempered with a secret thrill. Anne knew he would never actually hurt her; Athos was not capable of deliberately hurting women. He could kill her, but not hurt her. She was well aware how ironic that was.

Finally they came upon a small salon, where there were only a handful of people. Even that was too many for the coming confrontation, but the room had a balcony that was empty. Without a pause, Athos opened the balcony doors and pushed her into the brisk night air. He followed behind, drawing the doors as closed as he could get them without locking them both outside. The stone balcony was small, only a yard wide and twice that long. It faced a dark alley; the only light came from the windows of the palazzo.

Anne felt the stone balustrade hit her back; she had been cornered. Athos loomed before her, his face half in shadow. For a moment, he looked unfamiliar, a stranger in the night.

"What were you doing?" His voice was hoarse, demanding answers.

"I would think that should have been obvious – even to you." She refused to cower and instead stepped forward. There was hardly any space left between them.

"What game are you playing?" He had not released her arm; by now his fingers were a welcoming pressure against her skin, reminding her of all the impossible things – and she couldn't bear his touch any longer.

"Athos…" Somehow her voice came out as a whisper. "You're hurting my arm." Immediately, he loosened his hold, his fingers slackening. But Athos didn't let go. In silent apology, his thumb started to slowly rub the skin of her bare arm, spreading warmth through her whole body.

"Whatever you are doing – you will not succeed," he promised firmly. His confidence stoked her anger.

"I beg to differ," Anne huffed. "I was doing _very well _with the Duke, before you decided to drag me here like I was some badly behaved wife in need of his husband's admonishment."

"If only," he spat out, uncharacteristically venomous, "then I would only have to suffer from being a damn fool, cuckold in front of everyone because my wife is such a hussy –"

Smack! Her palm hit his cheek with a force so strong Athos reeled slightly backwards, his fingers finally relinquishing their hold on her arm. For a moment, she was as stunned as he was. But the fire in her – and in him – was not so easily extinguished. "If you dare say that again…" Anne hissed, her whole frame shaking from anger and from something that was not so easily named.

"What?" Athos smiled humorlessly, closing the small gap between them. He raised his hand and cupped the back of her head, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"I will _gut_ you." Like they had a will of their own, her treacherous fingers took hold of him by the lapels, making sure he could not retreat from her. Athos, however, didn't seem to be going anywhere, but forward; soon she was pressed between the balustrade and his firm body.

"No, you won't." His eyes were heated; his voice gravelly. Despite the chilly air, the warmth of his body engulfed hers. She was trapped, unwilling to move. Athos ducked his head and put his lips close to her ear. "_Hussy_," he whispered, making her shiver. He bit her earlobe lightly; she gasped and turned, slotting their mouths messily together.

Athos didn't need more prompting. He opened his mouth and then they were kissing fiercely, both of them trying to take charge of the kiss. Anne moaned, the familiar feel of his mouth, his wicked tongue, making her lightheaded. She had waited for this kiss the whole long, frustrating evening. It seemed he had too, for Athos barely let them take in a sip of air, before his lips were once again on hers, plundering and exploring. He was covering her almost completely: his long legs bracketed hers, his chest pressed against her franticly heaving bust, and his left hand still cupped the back of her head while the right was busy caressing the small of her back. Anne was overwhelmed by his presence.

"What the _hell_?!" The sudden voice was full of rage. Athos let her abruptly go and turned to face the man that had stepped into the balcony. Still dazed from the kiss, it took Anne a couple of seconds to realize what had happened. One of Athos' friends – Aramis – had caught them unawares. Judging from his stormy expression, he wasn't pleased.

The Musketeer had mainly kept out of her way during their stay in Venice, but what little Anne knew of him, the man was usually almost irritatingly genial and polite. Now he was anything but; Aramis' eyes were blazing with anger and contempt – and not all of it was solely aimed at her.

"What the hell is the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?" Oh, that was a mistake. Whatever Athos thought about his own actions – and she was a realist enough to know that he already regretted the kiss – he didn't suffer anyone to take that tone with him.

Athos' eyes narrowed. "This doesn't concern you."

"The bloody hell it doesn't!" Aramis looked like he wanted to hit Athos; Anne decided that enough was enough. The balcony doors were open and they had already attracted a swarm of curious onlookers, eager to know the details of the newest scandal. That was well and good, but if they drew the attention of the Duke's soldiers or Gonzaga's guards…

"Stop it now," she hissed to them both, "you are making a scene."

The two men faced each other tensely, everything from their postures to their gazes rigid, cutting. It was obvious there was a lot more they wanted to say to each other, but luckily they recognized that Ca' Gonzaga was hardly the right place for that.

"Are we ready to leave?" Athos' voice was so impassive it was almost cold.

Aramis glanced darkly at Anne, lips pursed. "Not yet."

"Then let's just get through the rest of the evening." Athos offered his arm to Anne; she took it, knowing full well it wasn't any kind of victory. He just wanted to keep her near him, until the Musketeers – probably Porthos, who was nowhere to be seen – had done what they had come here to do. What she herself had failed so spectacularly to do. Well, there was always another day, another chance.

As Athos led her from the balcony and through the salon, Anne kept a pleasant smile on her face, meeting every curious, gleeful or shocked gaze with her own, refusing to be mortified or uncomfortable. She even forced herself to look calmly at the Duke's Captain of the Guard, who was casually standing near the door. His eyes were too sharp, perceiving too much. Anne smiled at him serenely, while she silently cursed her stupid husband and his stupid friends.

-o-

The search wasn't going so well – in truth, it wasn't going _anywhere_. Porthos had searched all the three rooms twice, finding nothing that could be a secret treaty between the Duke of Orléans and the Duke of Savoy and/or the Venetians. No suspicious correspondence, not even one goddamn boring letter. The Duke's rooms were devoid of any kind of papers and documents; it was unnatural for a gentleman of his station. There had to be a place, where he was keeping them.

Porthos however had searched every nook and cranny, every drawer and shelf, behind and under all the furniture. He had ransacked the wardrobe, had even examined the Duke's clothes carefully, making sure nothing was hidden inside the seams. He had searched for secret compartments and hidden places, finding nothing. Porthos was frustrated and disappointed in himself. He hated to fail the others, the mission. The longer he searched, the more uncertain he got; maybe he was missing something?

He would not give up, not when there was still time left. Although the clock had already struck past midnight, the ball would continue until the first rays of the sun started to rise upon the horizon. Aramis had diverted the attention of the man, who had almost caught them red-handed, somehow drawing him away from the Duke's rooms, and no one else had since tried to bother him. Porthos could not give up so easily. The rooms were big and full of ornaments and cloths and personal items; he would go through every one of them until he found what he was looking for, or until he was absolutely certain the treaties were not in the Duke's rooms.

It was a damn shame that it was Porthos, who had gotten the metaphorical short end of the stick. He doubted that neither Athos nor Aramis were having a good time downstairs; they were probably tensely waiting, hating every moment in the lavish ball, not really appreciating the delicious food and divine wine, the various beautiful women trying to get their attention and favor… And all that aside, Porthos was certain that Aramis would have done a better job of searching the rooms. The man was _devious_. He would have probably thought to check dozens of places that Porthos had failed to search.

Porthos stood in the middle of the Duke's salon, forcing himself to stay still and survey the room evenly. He had been painstakingly careful to put everything back to its right place, leaving the rooms as he had found them, so as not to rouse suspicion. He was running out of ideas – perhaps he could check the stuffing of the settee. Suddenly the door handle started to turn, and Porthos tensed, readying himself for getting caught, for a fight. He missed his rapier and pistol; the guests had been prohibited from bringing weapons to the ball. He would have to manage with the dagger hidden in his boot and whatever could be found in the room – quickly Porthos grabbed the Duke's rapier.

The door handle turned, but then suddenly it was let go; the door remained closed. Porthos dared hardly to breathe. He stepped quietly to the door, trying to hear if someone was still in the corridor. He could discern two voices; a man and a woman were talking just outside the door. They were speaking in Latin, so to his annoyance, he didn't know what they were saying. But he did recognize one of the voices: it was Milady's.

What was she doing upstairs? Was she trying to get into the Duke's rooms? How was she trying to screw up their mission?

Soon the voices however stopped and no one came to the room. Porthos stood just beside the door, rapier in hand, waiting. After a few minutes he came to the conclusion, that whatever Milady wanted to do in the fourth-floor, she was gone from the immediate vicinity of the Duke's suite. Porthos couldn't waste time to think about her actions – he had to finish the search.

The settee was lined tightly with a gold-green cloth; inside of it was some kind of stuffing, probably straw. Porthos examined the seams of the cloth, but didn't see any obvious spot, where the cloth had been opened and sewn close again. He patted the stuffing, trying to find if there were inconsistencies in its texture, any lumps or hollows. There didn't appear to be any, and he was loath to just cut the cloth open at random; he would never get it back to the way it was. But maybe there was something inside the bed's mattress –

Quickly Porthos moved to the bedroom and took a closer look at the huge four-poster bed. He had already looked inside the pillowcases and linen, had checked under the mattress, but there was still the mattress itself. He stripped the linen from the bed and examined the big mattress throughout. After exhaustive search he had to finally give up: there was nothing. Either the Duke was very cunning and had hidden the treaties somewhere no one would thought to look or then the man was so paranoid he carried them with him at all times.

He made the bed impatiently, wanting to get out of the rooms. He had already wasted too much time – perhaps he could still enjoy the ball, before it was time to leave. At the very least he needed a strong drink.

A sudden thump from the salon froze Porthos; various sounds followed, a woman giggled. Someone had come inside the suite. Quickly Porthos surveyed the bed – it looked like it hadn't been touched. A man and a woman were laughing and talking, their voices coming nearer. Porthos had perhaps only seconds to hide.

Just in time, Porthos darted into the dressing room, drawing the door shut. He could only hope that the couple would have no reason to come there, for he had no believable excuse ready for why he was hiding in the Duke's dressing room. The voices came closer; the pair was now inside the bedroom. From a small gap between the door hinge and the wall, Porthos saw some of what was happening in the other room; the sounds told the rest of the tale.

Porthos rested his head against the wall, the situation's absurdity wholly apparent to him. He was trapped inside a dressing room, forced to listen as the Duke of Orléans and his companion were having very loud, very vigorous sex. It might have been entertaining, if it wasn't so damn inconvenient.

The Duke's stamina proved to be quite good; it took some time before the couple had finished their coitus. Expectantly, Porthos rose from the floor, where he had sat the last hour, hoping that the pair would either leave or go to sleep, giving him an opportunity to creep out of the suite. He cursed again the tiny window of the dressing room – he wouldn't fit into it, not even if he was forty pounds lighter.

Through the small gap he watched the couple; the Duke was sprawled on the bed, grinning wildly at the young woman, who had stood up. She was still wearing her petticoat and corset, her golden hair messy, cheeks pink with exertion. She was one of the most beautiful women Porthos had ever seen.

"Come back _chéri_," the Duke demanded, "I'm not finished with you yet." Porthos' heart sank. His patience would not last much more waiting in the small, stuffy room.

"And I'm not finished with _you_," the woman laughed, "but I think some refreshments are needed first." She sauntered from the bedroom and soon came back with two glasses of wine. The Duke took his drink eagerly and drank it with one gulp. The woman sipped hers, smiling.

Barely a minute passed and the Duke suddenly became limp and drowsy. Another minute and the man was sound asleep. Porthos tensed, for the Duke hadn't just naturally fallen asleep; the woman must have drugged him. Did she want him harm? Should he burst into the bedroom and defend the heir to the French throne? But the Duke seemed to be breathing just fine and the woman didn't appear to have any interest in him anymore. Instead, she started to go through the room methodically, opening drawers and searching through the clothes the Duke had haphazardly thrown on the floor.

Porthos could hardly believe it – what were the chances of someone coming to search the Duke's rooms, while he was there doing the same? His luck had run out; it was clear the woman would also search the dressing room. He would have no place to hide from her. Well, as the confrontation was inevitable, he could at least save her some trouble and get out of his hiding place sooner rather than later.

Without further thought, Porthos opened the door and grinned impishly. "Hey, so…it's nice to meet you." The woman gave a start and pivoted towards him, surprise and alarm clear on her face. Porthos looked at the still slumbering Duke meaningfully, suggesting hopefully, "So, if we can just forget this ever happened, yeah? I didn't see you, you didn't see me?"

The woman glowered at him with pursed up lips. Porthos sighed; when did things ever go as planned?


	12. Chapter XI: Updates

**Chapter XI: Updates**

_They also serve who only stand and wait._

- John Milton (1608–1674) -

-o- 

_The Second of March, 1631._ _Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The evening dragged on and changed finally into a dark night. D'Artagnan waited impatiently until most of the household were getting their much needed sleep, before they had to rise again to be ready to serve, when their master and mistress returned from the ball. No one saw him creep down the stairs to the guest bedroom, nor were they there to observe him, when he searched for any proof that Milady was acting against them or was somehow involved in the Duke's plans. He was certain that she was up to no good – when was she ever not? It had been many months since, but it still galled him to think how she had played with him. How willingly he had fallen under her spell, flattered that such a woman could find him interesting. Of course, it was not him that had interested her, but the company he kept. Were it not for him falling in love with Constance, he might have done more bad choices concerning Milady de Winter than he had ended up doing.

Despite d'Artagnan's hope to the contrary, it didn't take long to search the guest bedroom and ascertain that Athos had been right; there was nothing suspicious to be found. If there was something that revealed Milady's plans, she was too cunning to leave it in a room, where anyone could find it. Frustrated, he headed back to the small room he shared with one of Monteverdi's valets, knowing he had to wait at least a couple of hours, before the others returned from the party and he got to know if they had succeeded in their task or not. It was doubtful that he could get any sleep until the valet standing guard alerted the household that the Monterverdis and their guests were arriving, but it would be better to try to get some rest than to roam aimlessly around the house.

"Ugh – stop." The muffled shout made d'Artagnan halt; there was no one in the corridor with him, but the door to Elena Monteverdi's sitting room was half open. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and instinctively he reached for the weapon he did not carry – d'Artagnan knew to trust his senses, when they told him something was wrong.

"I said stop!" The distressed voice rose in volume, and d'Artagnan strode to the door, wrenching it wholly open.

The sitting room was shadowy, the only light coming from the lit candelabra on the table. D'Artagnan however had no trouble of discerning what was happening: Louise had been cornered against the settee by a man and was trying her hardest to avoid the attention of his greedy lips and hands.

With no hesitation, d'Artagnan tore the impudent man away from Louise, letting him crash against the wall. "She told you to _stop_." He hovered menacingly above the scrawny servant; he had seen the man a few times in the kitchens, always fetching and carrying something. The man cowered on the ground, the anger on d'Artagnan's face a universal language the servant couldn't claim to not understand.

Still furious, d'Artagnan lifted the man up from his lapels, pressing him none too gently against the wall. "If you ever try to do this again, I'll find you – do you understand?" The servant seemed to get the gist of his speech and nodded frantically, saying something hurriedly in Venetian. The minute d'Artagnan let go of him, the man scampered out of the room.

Louise was smoothing down her dress, the movement of her hands jerky. Her eyes lowered, she seemed distressed and embarrassed. D'Artagnan took a careful step towards her, but left plenty of room between them.

"Are you alright?"

"I could have handled it," Louise claimed hotly, "I was just about to…to scratch his eyes out. He would have been sorry for touching me."

"I don't doubt it for a minute."

Louise raised her eyes and watched him with suspicion, as if she was searching for signs of mockery in his tone and face. She didn't find any, for d'Artagnan was sincere; he was certain she could hold her own. That however, didn't mean that she had to, not when he was there to help.

"I could have," she repeated, "I have done so before. But – but even so, thank you." Louise gave him a small, hesitant smile.

"I'm just glad I was here to help," he said and then thought to explain, "It seems stupid to try to sleep, when in just a few hours we have to be up again. I tried to occupy myself with some menial tasks, but…"

"I know," Louise was quick to agree, "I tried to find Milady's earring, although it's next to impossible in this light." She shrugged her shoulders, and d'Artagnan was glad to see she looked better, much more like her unflappable self.

"You must have noticed that I'm not a very good valet," he confessed. Louise snorted, confirming his words. "I grew up in a farm and I was to be a farmer, like my father. But…well, he died and I lost the farm. I had to seek other work. I'm still not sure how I ended up as a valet to a Comte, but here I am." D'Artagnan didn't know why he was telling her all of that, for it had nothing to do with alleviating her suspicions. He found that he wanted to tell her – to make her somehow understand his position. It was doomed really, for he could never tell her the whole truth.

"I – I understand," Louise sounded hesitant, like she was unsure of the words she was speaking. "I didn't set out to be a maid either, but here _I_ _am_. You'll learn in time, I am sure of it." She gave him a teasing smile. "After all, you're just plainly terrible, not irredeemably horrible."

D'Artagnan smiled wryly; she was undoubtedly right. If he really had been Comte de la Fére's valet, he wasn't sure his friend's patience would have lasted this long without sacking him.

Louise took the candelabra and walked past him, stopping just before the door. "Goodnight – or the next few hours anyway. And d'Artagnan – thank you again, truly." Then she slipped out of the room, leaving him alone in the dark.

For a moment, d'Artagnan just stood there amid the darkness, in a middle of a strange room, in a foreign country. A strong wave of emotions, all tangled together, – longing, sadness, uncertainty –, threatened to suddenly overwhelm him. He fiercely missed Constance and her steady presence in his life. He was homesick for the familiar streets of Paris, for his place as a Musketeer, for the unwavering support of his friends and their good-humored jests. He was tired of playing the role of a servant, of being constantly on the fringes, waiting for others to act.

It was only temporary, he reminded himself. As soon as the mission was over, everything would go back to the way it had been – although he would still be separated from Constance. There was no easy fix for that.

Not letting himself indulge in the homesickness for long, d'Artagnan went upstairs, bypassing his own room and going instead to the room that had been given to Aramis and Porthos. The minute the others came back, they would convene there and share the latest updates to their mission. Not bothering to light a candle, d'Artagnan lay on top of one of the beds, closing his eyes. The others could wake him up; he was tired of staring at the walls.

Later, he could not say how long he had slept or if he had slept at all; it seemed just a moment had gone by, when he next opened his eyes to a room half-full with faint light. Drowsily, d'Artagnan sat up, his eagerness quickly returning.

"You'll never believe what happened," Porthos sounded enthused. He plopped down on the other bed fully dressed, including the mask, which still covered half his face. Whereas Aramis had already taken off his own mask and was violently yanking the fastenings of his doublet open, his expression dark. It seemed at odds with Porthos' convivial mood, so d'Artagnan looked at Athos, trying to gauge the success of their mission from his face. But as was all too common lately, the man was coldly expressionless, revealing nothing.

"Did you get the treaties?" D'Artagnan asked hopefully, already calculating how long it would take to arrest the Duke and travel back to Paris.

"No," Porthos admitted, little sheepishly, "but I took those rooms apart – there was nothing there."

"They must have been hidden somewhere else then, or the Duke must be carrying them with him at all times," Athos mused, not showing any signs of the disappointment that was currently gripping d'Artagnan.

"Yeah, well I don't think he is carrying them – at least he wasn't tonight," Porthos grinned impishly, clearly holding in something interesting that had happened.

"You managed to search _him_?" Athos sounded incredulous.

"Not exactly."

"Out with it already!" D'Artagnan demanded, too impatient for lengthened suspense. They all looked at Porthos inquiringly, even Aramis, who so far had been nursing his bad mood in silence.

"I was not the only one searching the rooms," Porthos told, and although his tone was light, there was an undercurrent of seriousness beneath it. "I had to hide in a dressing room of all places, when the Duke suddenly burst in with a woman. After they had their… _fun_, the woman drugged him and started to search the place. She also went through the clothes the Duke had been wearing, finding nothing."

"Who was she?" Aramis sounded angry; he had thrown his doublet and boots to the floor and was now wiping his brow with a wet cloth. D'Artagnan was reminded how his friend had been a month ago and wondered what had pushed him back to that dark place.

"I confronted her – I really had no choice -," Porthos crossed his hands beneath his head, relaxed despite this newest threat to their mission, "and she was graceful enough to introduce herself as Signora Mancini." The amusement in Porthos' tone revealed that the scene had hardly been as civilized as he described.

"Laura Mancini." Athos looked thoughtful, scratching his beard absent-mindedly. "Signore Monteverdi has mentioned her several times – apparently she is one of the most successful courtesans, entertaining various important Venetians."

"And a spy too," d'Artagnan surmised. It didn't surprise him in the least.

"Of course, who here isn't?" Athos asked wryly. "The more important question is: who is her employer?"

"I might be able to find out," Porthos yawned and stretched his legs, still not bothering to remove his boots. "We have a kind of silent deal – she won't expose me to the Duke and I will not mention her drugging activities. And she invited me to her house tomorrow – today that is, to dinner."

"You think it wise to go? No doubt she has more reason to have you there than a hankering for your stellar company." Aramis had given up his cursory washing and was leaning against the wall, his stance tense and tone skeptical.

"Oh, I don't doubt that she intends to squeeze every bit of information out of me that she can, but two can play that game."

"Alright, it's worth it to know who else wants the treaties and why," Athos agreed.

"About that…" Porthos sounded suddenly uncharacteristically hesitant, "during my search someone else tried to come to the room – I heard Milady's voice in the corridor. She was talking to someone, but I don't know what she said or what she was doing there, or even if it was her that tried to open the door."

Athos' lips thinned, but otherwise his expression remained stony. D'Artagnan didn't know if he should feel vindicated or disappointed. On the one hand, what Porthos told was finally some proof that Milady was involved somehow in the plot, but on the other hand, because of Athos, he had hoped that this time she was what she claimed to be – just a casual bystander.

"I knew it," Aramis hissed, looking strangely satisfied. "This is untenable! We have to deal with her, the sooner the better, before she destroys the whole mission."

"I'll manage it," Athos said tersely.

"Will you really?" Aramis challenged, not even bothering to mask his biting anger. D'Artagnan felt that once again he was missing something important between his two friends, something that would explain their antagonist behavior towards each other. Something had happened to cause this intolerable rift, but he wasn't privy to it. Once again, he was left blundering and guessing in the dark.

"I said I _will_," Athos growled out, eyes hard.

"Oh…did something else happen, with her?" Porthos inquired gingerly. Obviously he too didn't know what had happened between Athos and Aramis, but it couldn't alleviate d'Artagnan's frustration and anger at being left out. He knew the two would not give up their secrets easily.

"Nothing – nothing important anyway." Athos didn't look them in the eye, but kept his gaze resolutely on the opposite wall.

"_Nothing_," Aramis laughed darkly, "that's right." But he didn't elaborate, falling silent instead, leaving d'Artagnan and Porthos guessing and wondering if it would be worth it to press the point.

"One more thing," Athos said, seemingly calm again, "one of the Inquisitors, Antonio Gabrieli, sought me out. He clearly suspects, or knows, something."

"Great," Porthos sighed, sounding tired. D'Artagnan agreed – the last thing they needed was more obstacles.

"Gabrieli has been biding his time, but we can't count on him to not act soon – let's finish this mission as quickly as possible." Athos' voice had that commanding, steely tone, which made men follow him instinctively to the bloodiest battlefield. "Porthos, find out everything you can from Laura Mancini. Aramis, you'll continue to follow the Duke. I'll get to the bottom of Milady's plans."

"What about me?" D'Artagnan was ready for something more dangerous than making sure that Athos' shirts were properly pressed.

"Just…do what you have been doing, with the maid." It sounded like a dismissal, so d'Artagnan nodded tightly and got out of the room. Although the break of dawn was fast approaching, he strode to his room and lay down. He thought uncharitably that Athos would just have to manage to get to his own bed – or really, the hard settee where he had been sleeping – without any help from his valet. 

-o-

The ball finally came to its inevitable end as the sun rose, and the last of the guests were safely escorted or carried to their waiting gondolas. For the many servants at their service during the party, it didn't mean rest but the hurried cleaning of the remnants of the ball. The leftovers went into hungry mouths, but decorations needed to be taken down, the rooms had to be aired, and the spilled wine, the wax from burned-out candles, and stains of vomit had to be scrubbed away.

The Gonzagas had retired to their rooms hours ago, as had the Duke. Laura Mancini, the young courtesan, who had been the Duke's companion for the night, had left the palazzo some time ago, leaving the heir to the French throne to sleep off his drunkenness alone. His guaranteed hangover was not something that Claude Durand looked forward to, but it was unavoidable. The Captain of the Guard washed up, ate some breakfast and checked his men, giving most of them a stern telling off for being too lax and negligent the night before. But all of that didn't take up but a few hours, and Durand knew the hour was still far too early to wake up the Duke.

Once again, he debated the urgency of his business against the mood of his employer, and decided to wait a little longer. It wasn't as if he could do anything presently. He was exhausted, but didn't dare to sleep, and although rest was always appreciated, as a soldier he had gotten used to going long stretches of time without it. But Durand let himself to withdraw to the privacy of his room, where he sat down, taking off his boots. Somehow just merely standing the whole night in those magnificent rooms amid the rich and influential had been more exhausting than fighting in a bloody battle in some frozen field.

He took one of the boots to his lap and with practiced hands opened the inner seam inside the leather boot. Two letters fit snugly inside the small hidden space, so much so that one could have easily forgotten them there, if they had been less than what they were. But their presence had been weighing the Captain the whole evening and he couldn't be gladder to relinquish them to their owner, although it had been his own idea to carry them. He was still a little surprised that the Duke had trusted the treaties to him, but even Gaston knew it wasn't a good idea for him to keep them in the middle of a masked ball.

The early morning slowly turned into forenoon, and Durand estimated it was finally suitable time to wake the Duke of Orléans. He knocked on the suite's door, but didn't wait for the answer; instead he opened the door and strode inside. The Duke's valet was in the salon, arranging the breakfast trade laden with delicacies on the table. The slight man looked harassed.

"He's awake then?"

"His Highness woke a moment ago; he is still in bed," the valet answered monotonously. The man did not try to stop Durand, when he went to the bedroom door; he was used to the Captain taking liberties that were not always courteous or prudent.

Durand rapped on the door and this time waited until he heard an impatient "What?" He only needed to disclose his identity and he was commanded inside the room.

"Ah, Durand, too bright and early as usual." The Duke was still in bed, clad only in his nightshirt. "Bloody valet woke me up with his clanging and banging. As if I could eat anything!" Gaston looked ashen and nauseous, clearly nursing a strong hangover.

Durand decided it was best to get his business quickly over with. He took the letters from his pocket and handed them to the Duke, who examined carefully that the treaties were still sealed. "The Council wants to go over some details, but otherwise everything is in the bag," the Duke said, sounding satisfied.

"Any difficulties?" Durand tried to remember the different Council members he had met and who might pose trouble for the Duke.

"No, nothing I can't handle." The Duke smiled slightly as he held the letters in his hands. "And anyway, whatever happens, they can't go back now – I have their signatures. I'll have dinner with the Council tonight and we'll close the deal." He put down the treaties almost reluctantly. "With some luck, we can be on our way to France in a couple of days. Although I wouldn't mind staying…the women and wine here are excellent – except that bloody slop that I drank last night, ugh, my head feels like it's being hammered and squeezed at the same time."

Durand didn't bother to commiserate; he wasn't paid to be a nursemaid but an efficient Captain of the Guard. Therefore it pained him to reveal that he might have been less than competent. "There is something that might be a problem."

"What now?" The Duke sighed, as if the Captain was in the habit of bringing him nothing but news of trouble.

"Last night, I found a man near your rooms. He was drunk – or at least at the time I took him as being drunk. But later I saw him exchange heated words with some of the people he had come with and he was remarkably sober then. I made some inquiries – he is French, goes by the name of Aramis, and he came with the Comte de la Fére. They are staying with Giovanni Monteverdi."

"I never met the man," the Duke of Orléans said, knitting his brows, "although I did meet the Comtesse de la Fére – quite a lovely woman. But I hadn't heard of her or her husband before yesterday. You think they are acting against me?"

"Perhaps…but I have no evidence of that," Durand chose his words carefully, "but this man, Aramis – I don't recognize his name, but I do know his face. Just before they left, he took off his mask. It was some years ago, but I am certain I have seen him before."

"And?" The Duke was looking at him intently, the hangover pushed aside for the moment.

"When I saw him, he was a Musketeer."

"You think he still is?" Gaston clenched the edge of the sheet in his fist, eyes hard. They both knew what it meant, if the man was still a Musketeer – the King knew of the plot.

"He might have resigned or been sacked. But it's very suspicious that he was near your rooms, trying to play drunk." Durand grimaced and berated himself once more; he should have noticed that the man was acting, should have taken him somewhere private for questioning.

The Duke rose from the bed and went straight to the side table, filling a glass with wine that had been left in a carafe – presumably the slop he had earlier berated. He drank it with one gulp and turned to Durand, lips pursed. "I want you to find out just who that man is."

"And if he is a Musketeer?"

The Duke smirked mirthlessly and filled his glass again to the brim. "Find out what he knows – and kill him."

Durand gave a small bow and exited the room wordlessly, his orders crystal clear.


	13. Chapter XII: Divided

**Chapter XII: Divided**

_Anger, when it is long in coming, is the stronger when it comes, and the longer kept._

- Francis Quarles (1592–1644) -

-o-

_The Second of March, 1631._ _Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The day after the ball was bleak, filled with damp, thick fog. The sun had risen, only to be covered by white mist, which plunged the city into dimness, prompting the citizens to light torches and candles in the middle of the day. It was a day best spent indoors, and those who could, did. The revelers of the night before slept long and waking up took one look outside and decided to rest the afternoon and evening, curing their hangovers or overwrought minds. The servants and workers had no such choice and went about their business as usual, avoiding going to chilly outside air if they could.

The Monteverdis and their guests rose late, and had their breakfast in place of the luncheon, listless and tired from the ball. No one said much of anything, opting to eat in silence. D'Artagnan knew that the fraught atmosphere between his friends was caused by more than an overabundance of drink. Like on their way to Venice, Aramis and Athos avoided making any kind of contact, their eyes skirting away from each other. Porthos focused on eating, and Milady acted like all the Musketeers were mere air. Having already eaten in the kitchen, d'Artagnan stood behind Athos' chair, heavy and tired, trying not to fidget. There was nothing duller than watching others eat. Finally the awkward breakfast was over and people headed for their own rooms, their minds on their own tasks and pastimes.

Aramis slipped silently out of the palazzo, no doubt heading for Ca' Gonzaga; he was to resume their observation of the Duke. Porthos vanished into his room, having decided to take a nap – or more likely to brood about the others' behavior in peace – before the time came for him to meet Laura Mancini. Athos followed Milady into their room, and d'Artagnan knew he wasn't welcome there anytime soon.

Irritated, d'Artagnan slumped against the wall, having nothing to do. He could perhaps seek out Louise, but she had her own tasks to perform and would not be pleased if he interrupted her. Athos didn't need his help and Porthos was to go alone to pry information out of the courtesan. D'Artagnan sighed – he should have gone with Aramis. Waiting and following in a dank air would hardly be pleasant, but it would be better than being cooped up in the palazzo, itching for action. Perhaps he could still catch up with Aramis.

"D'Artagnan!" Louise hurried down the corridor, cheeks charmingly red from exertion and excitement. He pushed himself away from the wall, straightening up. He didn't want to look lazy or listless in front of her.

Louise came to a stop near him, a shy smile on her face. "I wondered…have you anything to do?"

"I can promise you I have _nothing_ to do." D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile back. The young maid had already managed to raise his spirits.

"Good!" Louise blurted and then laughed at herself. "I mean – Milady has given me the day off. Would you come to explore the city with me? I know the weather is awful, but this might be my only chance. I would love to see the city, and well, I would like if you were with me. Just as friends, of course."

"Of course." He gave a low bow. "Whatever _Mademoiselle _decrees." Despite the weather, he was exited to go outside, and not least because of the company. Louise was smart, spirited and behind a tough mask there was a sensitive and kind girl. She reminded him of Constance.

"Oh, stop it!" She swatted him playfully with her small hand. He grinned.

"Let's go now," he said eagerly, "just let me get something from my room, then I'm ready to go."

"Alright." Louise smiled, her eyes shining from excitement. "I'll wait for you at the backdoor."

"I won't be long!" D'Artagnan bounded up the main stairs, not caring about the disapproving looks he got from servants. He strode quickly to Aramis' and Porthos' bedroom, where he kept the things he didn't want his roommate's curious eyes to see: his weapons and his small bag of coins.

Porthos was resting on the bed, but opened his eyes, when d'Artagnan dashed inside. "What's the hurry?" he muttered, as d'Artagnan tugged the wardrobe open and pulled his things outside.

"I'm going to see the city with Louise," d'Artagnan explained, tying the sword belt around him securely and putting his weapons to their right places. He couldn't carry weapons inside the palazzo, but even a valet could be armed, when walking outside. In Venice, everyone had a right to defend themselves.

"Oh, I see." Porthos winked, a slow, knowing smile spreading onto his face. "Just remember – don't be cheap. There's nothing women hate more than a stingy man."

"You're one to talk," d'Artagnan snorted, but it was gentled by the smile on his face. He snatched his coin pouch, saluted his friend and pounded downstairs. It would be a good day. 

-o-

The fog curled around the buildings and filled the canals, swathed everything in a wet grey-white curtain. The streets were almost empty, the lack of people and sounds adding to the desolate air hanging above the city. Athos shivered with cold, his short cloak insufficient protection against the raw dampness of the weather. Milady had slipped outside, when their hosts had been resting, still recovering from the night before. She had left by the backdoor, walking the narrow lanes and passageways of Venice with sure feet. He had followed her outside and had carefully tailed her through the various _campi_ towards the _Ponte di Rialto_, the only bridge across the Grand Canal.

The weather made following her both easy and difficult. The fog hampered the sight; Athos couldn't see more than a few yards ahead. It took all his skill to trail the woman and not to lose her amid the mazelike streets. At the same time it made him nearly invisible; he doubted that he could be easily noticed by his quarry. He wondered where she was heading. To meet with her coconspirator? Whatever her destination, he would not let her out of his sight. Not this time.

Athos did not like to think about the ball, about all the failures of that cursed night. His mind however, circled back there, to the heated ballroom, to the small balcony, intent on torturing him. Athos knew he had been a fool; letting memories of the distant past and Anne's – _Milady's_ enticing presence influence his actions. The whole night had conspired against him, slowly crumbling his grip on the stony coldness that had been his defense for so long. She had managed to draw the anger, the want, the longing out of him.

But no more. He couldn't be drawn to that deadly spiral of darkness again. He was done with that dance.

He pushed resolutely the thoughts about the warmth of her skin, the softness of her lips, away from his mind, concentrating on Aramis instead. His friend's ire and disgust upon seeing him kissing their old adversary was a serious accusation. Whatever patching up they had done on the road to Venice, Athos feared the situation between them was even more difficult and hostile than before. He could understand that Aramis wasn't pleased with what he had seen, but the strength of his animosity had taken Athos by surprise. It was not the way of his friend to hold such anger – certainly not towards any of his Musketeer companions.

The big stone bridge loomed suddenly straight ahead, emerging from the shroud of mist like a great monolith. Milady's form, draped in a dark cloak, was already half-way up the stairs that led to the central _portico _of the bridge. Athos darted after her, the sound of his steps muffled by the thick fog. There were a few people on the bridge, hurrying along with their loads of parcels and baskets, but it was a remarkable change to how things usually were, when the central bridge of Venice was swarming with people from all sides of life. Now the bridge seemed as deserted as the rest of the city, the rows of shops on either side of the _portico_ empty, most of their shutters closed. In the middle of the Rialto Bridge opened up a view of the _Canal Grande_, but as everything else, the wide canal was covered with the white mist; only a flash of yellow light, moving slowly, revealed that someone was traveling on the water below.

Athos hurried down the steps to the other side of the bridge, coming to a sudden halt at the bottom of the stone stairs. A street led straight ahead, another vanished into the fog on his right, and a walkway followed the canal to the left. There was no sign of a dark cloak in any direction, no sign of anyone at all. Athos forced himself to stand still and listen, trying to hear the sound of footsteps or boats or anything. All was quiet.

He pushed aside the frustration and concentrated on calculating where she had probably gone. He absolutely _refused_ to let her get away – he would find her, even if he had to search every alley, canal and house in Venice.

-o-

Porthos knew he was going to arrive early to the dinner he had been invited, but he couldn't stay indoors any longer. He had brooded enough about the baffling antagonism between Aramis and Athos, had imagined dozens of ways how to make them see sense – most of them had been rather violent – and he had made up his mind. Tonight, he would pry everything out of Aramis, not spending another night watching how the other man deflected his questions before sinking stubbornly into silent depression. Porthos had been patient enough; he had a right to know what ailed his friend – both of them. Not just because they were supposed to trust each other, but because they were an effective unit that was getting less effective every moment that this bickering and secrecy continued.

Although the chilliness in the air tried to claw into his bones, Porthos appreciated the cold, for it cleared his stuffy mind. He hadn't slept much since coming back from the ball; the strained atmosphere between his two friends and their obstinate refusal to talk about it had kept him awake, tossing and turning. If he was honest, he was glad to spend the evening away from Ca' Monteverdi and the other Musketeers. It certainly helped that the woman he was going to meet was beautiful, intriguing and probably deadly – in other words, perfect distraction from his own problems.

Porthos grinned as he thought about their encounter the night before. He had certainly managed to take the courtesan by surprise, but she had recovered commendably. Laura Mancini had first been quite ready to turn him in, willing to scream the whole palazzo down to alarm the guards. Luckily she had quickly changed tactics, when it had come apparent that Porthos was just as willing to expose to all and sundry what _she_ had been doing. As the Duke of Orléans had still been heavily drugged, it wouldn't have been hard to prove that Signora Mancini had done more than entertained him.

They had come to a reluctant truce: neither would expose the other, although it had been clear that they both sought the same thing. Alerting the guards would have only hindered both their tasks, and so they had come to a silent agreement that they would rather deal with each other than the Duke's soldiers. Even so, it had surprised Porthos, when the woman had introduced herself overly politely, an impish smile on her lips, and with the next breath had invited him to dinner, to discuss their "mutual interests". Porthos could appreciate a woman, who took risks and was quick-witted, not to mention gorgeous. She made him curious and keyed up. Actually, the courtesan reminded him of Milady, but he would _not_ think of that.

The gondola glided silently through the thick fog, the surrounding city nearly invisible around them. Only flashes of grey stone hinted at their surroundings. Porthos was amazed that the gondolier could navigate in the nearly impenetrable mist, knowing when to turn into a right canal and when to dodge the boats that suddenly emerged right in front of them. It made him nervous, to be in the mercy of a stranger's skill to steer a boat, but walking had been out of the question. Porthos would never have found Laura Mancini's house by himself – not in this weather.

He had no idea in which canal, let alone in which area of the city, they were when the gondola came to a slow halt and thumbed against a pier. A grey three-story house rose from the mist, looking isolated and lonely, although Porthos knew there had to be houses all around it; in Venice, all possible space was carefully put to good use. He hopped on to the wooden pier that was slippery from the heavy dampness, gesturing for the boatman not to wait for him. The house wasn't as grand as the great palaces lining the Grand Canal, but it had a nice façade, decorated with stone balusters, and a heavy oak door with a familiar lion headed knocker, all of which revealed that the owner was comfortably well-off.

Porthos brushed his beard, touched the hilt of his rapier and straightened up to his full height. He knew he cut an imposing figure and planned to use it – and everything else he had – to get an advantage over the courtesan. Knocking on the door, his lips drew into a rakish smile. It was time to see who would charm whom.

-o-

The anger was still simmering beneath his skin, when Aramis left Ca' Monteverdi. In the coldness of the air, it warmed his blood and bones, quickening his heart. It kept him company the whole miserable day, from Ca' Gonzaga through the familiar streets to Piazza San Marco, where he settled to wait for the Duke, who once again vanished inside the Doge's Palace.

The large square was eerily empty, only a few people dashing across it from time to time. Lining the long sides of _La Piazza_ were the arcades of the _Procuratie Vecchie_, buildings that contained the offices of the high officers of state. A wretched old vendor stood shivering beneath one of the arcades, a cart half-full with wooden barrels next to him. There were no Carnival amusements anywhere; all the other performers, vendors and swindlers had wisely decided it would have been pointless to try to find customers in the middle of the frigid fog. Aramis wondered about the old man; maybe he hadn't any choice but to be outdoors, any chance of a paying customer, however remote, one he had to take.

In the eastern end of the piazza stood the Doge's personal chapel, the great church of St Mark's Basilica. Standing close to it was the famous bell tower, _Campanile di San Marco_. Its rust red bricks rose high up in the air, the top vanishing into mist. In front of the church were three large mast-like flagpoles that each carried the Venetian flag. The winged golden lion on a red surface usually flew proudly in the wind, the symbol of Venice's power and wealth. Now the flags were hardly visible.

Aramis knew the wait for the Duke would probably be long and most definitely uncomfortable. In a deserted piazza, he was easily noticeable; he could only hope that the fog would cover him as it covered everything else. He bought a flagon of wine from the old man and settled in his usual spot, under the arcade of the Doge's Palace. The marble columns were acting as a protection against the biting wind that was steadily increasing. It howled from across the lagoon, shifting and pushing the mist around. He could hear the flagpoles banging in the wind.

He drank the wine slowly, wanting it to last the evening. The Duke would probably had dinner in the Doge's Palace and it could take hours; as they could afford it, the rich usually spent an absurd amount of time eating and drinking. Aramis didn't have anything eatable with him, and his stomach rolled with the mere thought of food. He had no appetite. His anger had burned it away.

With almost detached curiousness, he examined the churning mass of animosity, rage and bitterness that had taken hold of him so suddenly and swiftly the night before. Aramis knew the dark feelings had not appeared out of nothing; they had been inside of him all along. He had thought he had mastered them, that he had pushed them aside. But he was hardly in control of anything anymore – certainly not the mission, or what happened to those he cared about. Still, the strength and rancor of his feelings had taken him by surprise and he knew he had unsettled his friends, some of whom didn't deserve it.

He could admit that his reaction had perhaps been out of proportion. Athos was a grown man; if he wanted to kiss the witch that had brought so much misery into his life, it was his choice. The kiss itself didn't concern Aramis, but the obvious ease and intensity with which the pair had once again fallen into each other's lives did. It hadn't even been a week, and Milady already had a strong grip of Athos; his friend maybe couldn't or didn't want to acknowledge it, but Aramis had seen how Athos looked at her, when he thought no one noticed. There was a helpless hunger in his gaze, desperation of a drowning man, who glimpses a distant shore just before everything is finished. Athos was a fool, if he thought he could escape this encounter with his former wife without any further scars and haunted dreams. She would disappoint Athos again, he was certain of that, leaving Aramis once again to try to put the remaining pieces together.

The flagon of wine was almost empty; Aramis drank the last drops and let it drop to the ground with a heavy, echoing thud. Suddenly the hate for her burned so bright, he had the mad thought that he should just kill her; take his rapier and plunge it into Milady's stomach. Surely Athos would forgive and forget it, as he had already forgiven and forgotten so much of what _she_ had done. Aramis grimaced. He knew he was being unfair towards his friend, but Athos deserved it. Didn't it matter to him, that she had caused it all? Had sent those men to kill them, to hound them into that convent, where he had lost one love and had begun to lose another?

A slight sound echoed in the arcade and Aramis stiffened, his thoughts racing to catch up with his other senses. But it was already too late; dark forms plunged from the gloomy mist, surrounding him. Aramis drew his rapier, his unloaded pistol useless. The clang of steel followed his movement as the Duke's soldiers raised their own swords. Aramis didn't wait for their next move, but rushed towards the men on his right, hoping that his quick attack would surprise the soldiers and let him fight a way out of the trap. The first man was taken unawares, his reaction to Aramis' movements a bit too slow. As he started to fall to the ground, the Musketeer had already withdrawn his sword from the man's gut, moving to engage the next soldier.

Aramis slashed and parried, dashed and dodged. Men fell around him, but still, the circle surrounding him tightened. He fought with a grim, single-minded focus, knowing he was unlikely to win the battle. As good a fighter as he was, they were too many and he was just one. It was just a matter of time before he would be overwhelmed. He kicked one man into a stomach, cut another across the arm. A sharp pain erupted at his side, but Aramis ignored it. The rush of violence, the nearness of death pushed everything but the most necessary thoughts away. World narrowed into a single sequence of familiar movements.

He already knew what awaited him; the soldiers were reluctant to kill him, trying to disarm him instead. They wanted to take him alive. It would be perhaps prudent to give up, so he could stay relatively unharmed. That way, he would have a better chance of escaping later. But everything in Aramis recoiled against surrender. He didn't want to give any quarter; he would kill and wound as many of them as he could. The heat of his anger had hardened into cold steel. It felt good to act, to fight, to hurt.

It felt good to be _alive_ again.


End file.
